Casualties of War
by MillieW
Summary: A war has many casualties and Hermione has lost more than most. Years on the run from Voldemort and his followers has taken it’s toll, but is she strong enough to stop to rest, to trust, to learn to love again? HermioneBlaise
1. The End

**The End**

A war has many casualties – among them trust, courage, love. Hermione had seen all of them die on the battlefield that took her friends. She had seen trust die when Seamus turned out to be a spy. She had seen courage die when their ranks fell and those she thought were loyal friends started to flee. She had seen love die in her arms as she cradled Ron's lifeless body, before leaving it to the scavengers of the night.

She had seen them all die, and with them her hope had died too. The battle had been lost. Harry was dead along with Ron and most of his family. No one knew the whereabouts of the rest of them. Just as no one knew the whereabouts of her. They were all scattered, on the run, hunted by the people that they were supposed to have beaten.

If she could, she would have cried. As it was she never dared, afraid that if she started she would never stop. Afraid that the pain would overwhelm her, claim her, leave her unable to keep fighting, keep moving, running, hiding. She had promised Ron she would go on. She wasn't about to break her promise. And so she never cried. She never stopped to feel. She kept moving from one safe house to another, laying her life in the hands of people she wasn't sure could be trusted. Taking every precaution she could to prevent them from betraying her.

Her efforts had been in vain this time.

The moment she heard them, she knew she was betrayed. She shivered slightly as she hid in a small shed in the back of a garden, knowing that it wouldn't be hidden as its owner promised her it would be. Listening to the voices outside, she knew she was surrounded. From behind she could hear the Malfoys, both father and son, from the right Crabbe and Goyle, from the left several others, both known and unknown voices. Many were voices that she'd heard before, but couldn't place. More were voices she'd never heard before and far too many were voices she knew far too well from her side of the war. Or what she thought was her side of the war. Voldemort was steadily gaining followers from all ranks now when no one stood in his way.

Her knuckles turned white as her grip on her wand tightened. There would be no Disapparating out of here, they would have made sure of that. Just as they would have made sure that there were no other ways out. It was over. Months, no years, of running, and it would all be over in a dirty shed in a traitor's backyard. Swallowing hard, Hermione strengthened her resolve. She wouldn't go without fighting. She would take as many of them with her as she had the power to. The shed wasn't big and the entrance would never fit more than one. She would kill them, one by one as they entered; not stopping until she, herself was killed.

Closing her eyes for only a moment, she got ready to move in front of the door. The moment proved too long. The mistake too big as she was pressed up against the wall, a hand clamped down on her mouth and her wand wrung from her own hand.

Staring at the dark skin of the man that would be her death she wondered how he could have moved so quietly, so quickly. The others were still moving outside, talking, whispering. He wasn't making a sound. She felt the ropes of his wand sneak around her body as he whispered the spell. Then he backed away, making her to fall to the floor, the ropes making it impossible to stand, to fight. But he didn't move far. He didn't call the others. Instead he ripped of a piece of the sheet from the small, creaky bed and muttered a spell she couldn't distinguish. Turning back to face her, he stuck the piece of cloth inside the ropes that tied her, before stepped back once more.

The only thing she felt when the portkey activated was surprise.

She landed hard, her body soon aching from the bruises caused by the cold stone floor. There was someone there with her, someone small, someone who untied her. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the room she could make out a house-elf struggling with the ropes and knots that kept her limbs from moving.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered why. Why was the house-elf untying her? Why hadn't he killed her at once when he had the chance? Why hadn't Zabini handed her over to the others? Why this? Why was she here? Where was here?

Looking around the small room, Hermione noted that it looked like most rooms she'd stayed in over the past years, only even more like a cell. It was quiet, she could hear no sounds from outside, which probably meant no sounds she made would be heard outside the room either. There was no window, no way to see inside, no normal light from outside that would tell her when the night had turned to day. A small candle cast the only light in the room. It wasn't nearly enough to see well. A bed, a nightstand supporting the candle, a small table and a chair. No other furniture. Just the bare stone walls. No decorations, no window, not even a door.

Tentatively Hermione moved her limbs as the house-elf finished untying her. She wanted to say thank you, but the house-elf Disapparated before she had the chance. Still somehow Hermione didn't need to try to know that the wizard form of Apparation wouldn't work in here. Not for her anyway.

Getting up from the stone floor, Hermione started to examine the room more carefully. She knew there had to be a door, yet no matter how hard she searched she couldn't find one. The feeling and cold of the room alone told her she was in someone's dungeon, the only question was whose dungeon. Curling up on the bed she started to wait. There wasn't much else to do. She was caught, trapped, most likely would be dead in a few hours. Whatever the reason for her being brought here, her respite would probably not last that long. In all likelihood they only wanted information from her first. Not that she would ever give them any. Her only hope now was that they wouldn't torture her for too long. That she would still have her sanity when she died. That Voldemort wouldn't be able to intrude on her mind before she was allowed to join Ron on the other side. Silently she wished she was dead already.

She awoke from being firmly shaken. Groggy and sleep-fogged, it took a few moments to remember where she was and why. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall when she finally woke properly, looking bored and slightly restless. No sign that he just a few moments ago had been bent over her in an attempt to wake her. There was food on the small table next to him, and water to drink. She suddenly felt very thirsty. Not that she would give in that easy. There would certainly be a catch.

"Finally. That took a while," he said, impatience in his voice as he spoke. She watched him, not sure of what to say. Questions would be useless, she was sure, and the way his long fingers drummed on his arm she was convinced he wasn't in the mood to chat. Then why would he be? She was his prisoner after all. He was just the guard.

"I didn't know you were in such a hurry," she said, hoarsely, her throat sore after being forced into silence for too many weeks, her ears not used to the sound of her own voice. "What's the problem? Can't you kill me while I'm sleeping?"

He snorted, disdainfully. "If your death was what I was after I would have killed you last night."

"Then why didn't you?" Hermione asked, before she could stop herself.

"And here I thought you were the smart one. The greatest witch of our year and all that crap," he said, rolling his dark eyes. Hermione didn't answer. Instead she watched him, hoping that he'd decide to tell her anyway. He didn't. With a tired sigh he pushed away from the wall.

"Eat," he said. "You're probably hungry."

Not until he moved towards the wall at the foot of the bed did Hermione see that there was now a door. Wanting answers before he left but unable to find the right questions, Hermione lashed out.

_"If you think you're going to get any information from me you're wrong. You might as well kill me now, because_ I_will never become a traitor!"_His hand was already on the doorknob, yet he stopped himself from turning it when he heard her. Slowly he turned, letting his almost black eyes study her intently.

"You still haven't understood, have you?" he said, softly. "If the others had got to you last night you would be dead. They don't care about any information you might have to share and frankly neither do I." he quieted for a while, watching her, as if pondering what to do next, before he started talking again:

"I saved your life last night, Granger. You're here as my guest. If you don't want to stay here, feel free to leave."

"And how am I supposed to do that without a wand?" Hermione asked, defiantly.

"Through the door, perhaps?" he answered, sarcastically. "Besides, if you're so smart, there shouldn't be a problem for you to get a hold of a new wand. Not that it would matter in the long run anyway," he finished.

"And why is that?"

"Because you wouldn't last long. Voldemort has spies everywhere, and he will find you sooner or later. Your only hope is that he finds you before Malfoy does. Voldemort would simply kill you, or send someone else to do so. Malfoy would have his fun first. I've seen him do it. I've seen the girls beg for death when he's done. But it's your call. If you think you're better off out there than here, go ahead and leave."

He had left the room before she could oppose him. Shivering at the thought of having Draco touch her in any way, shape or form, she sat back down on the bed. The door was still there. Whatever magic had hid it from her view last night was taken from it now. She hadn't heard a lock turn._Had he really meant it when he said that she could leave_

Frowning Hermione curled up and looked around the room, trying to find a clue to what was going on. Her eyes fell far too quickly on the plate of food on the table in front of her. Feeling her stomach growl at the mere thought of food she tentatively stood up and walked up to the table. It wasn't a spectacular meal. It was rather plain, ordinary, probably cold by now. But she hadn't eaten properly for at least two days, depending mostly on how long she'd slept last night. With no window she couldn't look outside for a clue about the time. For all she knew it might very well be night again.

Hesitantly, Hermione sat down, staring at the food, wondering what to do. If she ate, she would have more strength. If she were to get out of here, she definitely needed her strength. But then the food might contain something. Veritaserum, perhaps to make interrogation easier. Or maybe just some potion to prevent her from going away. A sleeping potion perhaps? Still, without food she wouldn't last long. And if she left she couldn't know how long it would be before she received another meal. When she thought about it she couldn't be sure when she would be allowed to eat next even if she was forced to stay. Nervously, she fidgeted the fork before she finally took the first bite.

It wasn't particularly tasty. Rather it was cold and the potatoes had gone soggy from standing around for too long. It was still the best thing she'd tasted in a very long time. Annoyed, Hermione ate quickly, pushing away the feeling of gratitude she felt for the food. She would be damned if she started to feel grateful to a Death Eater, even if he seemingly had saved her life, although she hadn't completely decided to trust him about that. Just as she hadn't decided to trust him about the door being left unlocked or unguarded. But then there was only one way to find out the latter now wasn't there?

With the food eaten and her breath caught in her throat, Hermione walked over to the door and tried the knob. She wasn't sure what she expected exactly, for it to be locked or for a band of Death Eaters to stand on the other side waiting to kill her. She rather was hoping for the latter. At least then it would be over with.

She watched with trepidation when the door swung open, but to her surprise there were no Death Eaters or guards on the other side. Not even a house-elf. Only an empty corridor, made from nothing but cold grey stone. Again, there was no decoration to think of, and Hermione couldn't help but think that it didn't look like it was used frequently. Biting her lower lip, Hermione walked through the door, closing it quietly behind her.

She was half expecting to run into the guards she was sure should have been posted outside her door. Had Zabini made them move so that she would be fooled into a false sense of security? But then why would he do that? What was his reason for doing something like that? Why let her move freely at all? Why not just lock the door? In spite of her fears, Hermione continued to walk towards what she thought was an exit, eventually finding herself standing in what she supposed to be the ground floor of the Zabini-manor. She was still nervous, but at least this part of the house looked as if it was being lived in.

She ducked behind a big red curtain at the back of a door when she heard Draco's familiar voice coming from a room right next to her. Feeling the sweat start to trickle down her neck, she tried to be quiet as she peeked into the room from the creak between the door and wall.

Draco was standing with his back turned to her, facing Zabini in the middle of the large room, that couldn't be anything but the manor's drawing room. He seemed upset. His voice was strained at best, and his hands kept fisting around – around_her_wand. Shivering, she held her breath, afraid to attract attention as she listened.

"…you still haven't answered me, Zabini!" Draco snapped.

"I don't answer to you, Draco. I answer to the Dark Lord and no one else, and last I checked _he_ wasn't unhappy with my performance last night. I was the only one of us that found anything, after all. I was the one that brought you that wand, wasn't I?" Zabini answered, looking nothing like a man confronted by a superior, but rather as if he was having a pleasant conversation over a cup of tea.

"A wand is hardly the same as a person!" Draco retorted, sounding as if he would lose what little temper he had left. "If you followed orders and stuck together with Nott–"

"So now I'm to blame for Nott taking off into the forest?" Zabini interrupted, quickly, crooking an eyebrow. "Would you rather have had me follow and leave my post?"

"He didn't run off into the forest – he was sent there by you!" Draco nearly shouted.

"Says who?" Zabini replied, a hint of anger in his own voice as well. His features were still calm however. His face still held the same haughty expression as before, the colour of his skin probably helping him not to flush too easily.

"Says Nott!" Draco answered, coolly.

"And you believe him? He runs off into nowhere, leaving his assigned post while i I /i do my job and find the only solid piece of evidence we have, and you believe _him_ ?" Zabini hissed, his dark eyes narrowing as he watched Draco intently. Hermione found herself wondering if his gaze would be as intense if his eyes had been lighter in colour. If he had Draco's grey eyes, would his gaze still look as if it could pierce straight through you?

"You don't think I should?" Draco answered, and Hermione could almost hear the raise of his eyebrows.

"Well, that, of course, would be up to you," Blaise said, calmly, his eyes and features returning to the same distant haughty look they had before. "You might want to think about it one more time, though._I_wasn't the one to leave my post._I_wasn't the one to disobey a direct order. _I_ wasn't the one that was alone in a forest around the same time as our catch was slipping through our fingers. A catch that should have had no way of knowing we were coming. A catch who should have been unprepared and surrounded, but who still managed to get away somehow. You don't find that the least bit odd?" he added.

Draco didn't reply this time. Instead he started pacing the room, twirling _her_ wand between his fingers as if it was his own. He looked unsettled and angry, the muscles in his jaw working furiously as he clenched them together.

"That little piece of vermin," he then muttered under his breath and turned back to face Zabini again. "Not a word of this to anyone. I will handle that little prat, myself. Thinking he can fool me. _Me_ a Malfoy! There is going to be hell to pay for him, Zabini – be sure of that!" he finished. Moments later Draco was storming out through the door, passing so close by her that Hermione could feel the curtain ruffling as he brushed past it.

With her breath caught in her throat Hermione stood still, not daring to move, not knowing if Draco was still there or not. If she had had her wand she wouldn't have missed the chance, but she was not about to let him kill her using her own wand. Or worse. She still remembered what Zabini had told her about those getting caught by Draco. Right now there were few things she could imagine to be worse than that.

"You can come out now. He's gone."

Zabini's voice startled her._ How could he know she was there? _Slightly nervous she stepped out, squaring her shoulders not to let her nervousness show.

"I guess this means you've decided to leave, then," he said, plainly, not an emotion showing in his face. No trace of the lie he'd just told. No sign to show that he'd just sentenced a man to death by the mere use of his voice. Taking a deep breath, Hermione nodded her reply. _After all, how did you speak to a man that killed so easily? So coldly? So effortless?_

"You might want to wait until Draco is further away. Not that it will make much difference to your life, but I would rather you didn't get yourself caught on my property," he said, matter-of-factly, looking out through a large window overlooking a larger garden.

"That would be the only thing concerning you, wouldn't it?" Hermione regretted the words the moment she had spoken them. What if he changed his mind about letting her go? What if he decided to hand her over to Voldemort, after all? When he turned to look at her he didn't seem to have any such thing on his mind. But then he hadn't looked like he wanted to kill someone when he convinced Draco that Nott was a spy.

"Of course it would! I have no wish to die. If you want to do so then there is really nothing I can do to stop you, but I do demand that you don't bring me down with you," Zabini answered, simply.

"If you care so little then why did you save me in the first place?"

"You haven't figured that out yet?" he asked, crossing his arms in front of him as he watched her. "Voldemort is losing, Granger. He may look strong, but he's not. The resistance is growing, and if I'm right the next one that raises a wand against Voldemort might very well be the one that kills him. If I'm right he isn't as immortal as he thinks he is."

"If you're right?" Hermione asked, trying not to let the surprise of hearing a Death Eater saying Voldemort's name show.

"If I'm right," he confirmed. "I'm not a stupid man, Granger. I don't swear allegiance without knowing who I swear allegiance to. I found out all there was to know about Voldemort a long time ago. I know all about his horcruxes, and if I am right, Potter wouldn't have entered into a battle with him unless every single one of those had been destroyed. Potter didn't stay alive as long as he did through being _that_ stupid. He went into that fight knowing he could win."

"How…how do you know about…?" Hermione couldn't even finish the sentence, too stunned to speak.

"Did you really think that you and your friends were the only ones that knew? People talk, Granger. And I'm a very good at convincing them to," he said.

"Convincing them? You mean torture them?" Hermione said heatedly, feeling the anger rise within her.

"I don't torture people!" Zabini snapped, taking a step closer.

"So you just kill people, then!" Hermione snapped back. He may be a killer, but she wasn't about to let herself be intimidated.

"If necessary, yes I do!" he answered coldly, his face set in stone. "And don't try and tell me that you never have," he added with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"On the battlefield and in self-defence only! I never killed someone that wasn't trying to kill me and I _never_ stabbed a friend in the back with lies!" Hermione retorted heatedly, her face getting flushed with agitation. _How could he even begin to compare himself with her?_

"And you don't think today was a battlefield?" Zabini returned, his face for the first time showing any sign of emotion. "Do you think Draco was here on a social visit? That he was here for a cup of tea? He was here to kill me! Nott knew why I sent him away last night. He'd figured it out, and he'd told Draco. It was me or him – as simple as that. I did what was necessary to save my life! And yours - or do you really think you would have been able to hide behind that curtain, with Draco searching the premises?" Zabini was standing only a small distance away from her now, his face so close she could feel his breath on her skin – then he moved, turning away facing the fireplace.

"So you killed him for telling the truth. For not betraying what he believes in?" Hermione asked.

"Yes! I did. It was necessary to save our lives. And if you think I take lightly on that, then you can stop, because I don't. I've known Nott since I was eleven, and I like him far more than I do you," he answered, his voice reminding her of velvet – deep, rich, soft. Impressions could be deceiving.

"Then why save me in the first place, you must have known he would realise the truth?" Hermione asked, her voice calmer this time, even though her insides were revolting.

"I've already told you – Voldemort will lose the war. He is failing. He doesn't see it, nor will he ever see it, but there will always be people like you – willing to fight no matter what the odds. The next one might well be the one that kills him, and if – when – that happens, I'll need you," he said turning back to face her again.

"To do what, exactly?" she asked surprised, knowing that whatever it was, she wouldn't go along with it.

"For a smart witch you're really stupid, you know that?" he snapped impatiently. "To tell them I saved you, of course. To keep me alive and out of Azkaban."

"And why would you think that anything I'd say would make any difference?" Hermione answered spitefully.

"You really don't know, do you? You really don't understand?" He asked, his face frowning, his voice full of surprise.

"Understand what?" she asked plainly.

"What an icon you are to the resistance."

"I am?" She could hear how stupid it sounded. She knew she would probably know what he was talking about if she wasn't so out of the loop of what was going on in the world. Once it had been her that held all the information. She had been the one to know what was going on, to keep track of new developments. Lately she felt lucky if she came across a newspaper that was three weeks old.

"Of course you are! You're the one that got away. The one that keeps slipping through Voldemort's fingers - the only one he cannot catch," Zabini explained, as if talking to a small child. "Why do you think he is so desperate to find you? He wants you dead, Granger, because your mere existence is a threat to him," he continued. "And that is why your word is going to help me when that day comes."

"So you saved me, only to save yourself," Hermione said resentfully.

"What did you think? That it was some noble act, for some noble reason? In the end, self preservation is the only thing that matters," he said plainly, crossing his arms.

"Talking like a true Slytherin!"

"Good thing for you that I am one. Or haven't you trusted enough people to do things for the right reasons, only to find yourself betrayed for the wrong ones yet?" he asked raising his eyebrows, burning into her with his eyes. She shuddered, feeling his comments hitting too close to home, his eyes looking too deep inside her. Looking down, she tried to shake off the feeling of intrusion. She wouldn't put it past him to be a Legimens, and she was not about to give him the opportunity to read her mind. He however just continued. "How many times is it now, Granger? How many times have you been forced to run because those you trusted failed you?"

"I don't trust people. Not for any reason. And I certainly won't trust a Death Eater like you!" she answered, raising her head in defiance, meeting his gaze with spite.

"Then don't! I don't care for your trust. I care for staying alive. Giving you up will kill me. Plain and simple. I have no wish for death. It's not trust, Granger, it's logic," he said, not taking her challenge, just meeting her eyes calmly. "Do we have a deal?" he then asked, just as calmly.

Maybe it was because she was tired of running, or maybe because he didn't ask him to trust her. Mostly, however, it was because he mentioned logic. Logic was tangible. Logic was countable and reliable. Logic was something she had inside her, something no one could ever take away from her.

"Yes we have a deal," she answered, holding out her hand, curious whether he would shake hands with a Mudblood like her. Watching her hand he reached out and squeezed it quickly.

"Good!" He turned and pulled a cord hanging from the wall. The house-elf that helped her the other night entered the room. "This is Minny, I think you met her last night. She'll help you find your way down again."

Hermione bit back a comment about house-elves being enslaved, and nodded. This wasn't the time or place to have an argument about that. Besides, she was tired and spent and really didn't have the energy anymore.

Hermione followed the house-elf named Minny down the stairs she had climbed earlier. Down the narrow tunnels that were the dungeon. Curious, Hermione wondered how many more rooms like hers there were hidden in the walls of the Zabini-manor dungeons.

The door was still there when they returned but it vanished as soon as Minny closed it behind her, leaving Hermione inside the small room, once more trapped without the opportunity to leave, once more feeling like a prisoner.

Looking in front of her, Hermione could see that the bed had been made. Fresh sheets and covers had replaced the ones she slept on the night before. These too, were plain and without decoration, not that it mattered. They looked quite warm and comfortable, suitable for a dungeon. Probably warmer than the worn blankets that sheltered her in cold nights previously.

Looking around the room she saw that other things had changed, a door on the wall to the right, a trunk by the end of the bed, much as their trunks at Hogwarts. She pushed the memory away, trying not to think about a happier time than this. With a deep breath she decided to start with the trunk and sat down on the floor and opened it. As could be expected, there were clothes inside.

They weren't fancy, or beautiful, but practical and warm. The clothes of a war. Picking out a nightgown, Hermione wondered how long it had been since she slept in anything other than her own clothes – always sleeping with half an eye open, always ready to move if she was betrayed. She wasn't even sure how long it had been since she changed her present clothing, or how long ago it had been since she had time to wash them properly – not with cleaning spells, but with water and soap, taking the time to rinse them thoroughly.

Closing the door she got up. It didn't matter that the clothes came from Zabini. It didn't matter that she didn't trust him. They were clean and in one piece, which was more than she could say for the ones she was wearing. With the nightgown in hand she then turned towards the new door in the room, hoping it would be a toilet.

She was right, it was a toilet. But more than that, it was a bathroom. Staring at the bath, Hermione felt amazed that she even knew what it was still. Not once during the last five months had she ever had time to soak in a bath. Quick showers. Swims in the nearest river, pond or lake. Scrubbing of with a conjured sponge in front of a sink. A bath hadn't even entered her mind. She didn't have time to think of things like that, and if she did it would only drive her insane. She couldn't afford that. And yet here she was, staring at a bathtub, for the first time in months with time enough on her hands to use it.

She watched as the bath filled. The sound of the running water almost enough to put her asleep. She was almost afraid to step inside the tub; the feeling of relaxation one she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a very long time. When she did, she sighed as the warm water enveloped her, caressed her, soothed her as it allowed her to wash in a way she had nearly forced herself to forget.

When she rose she left her old robes where they lay discarded and dressed in the nightgown she had found. It would have been a perfect fit, had she still been the same size as she once was. As she was now the nightgown fell loosely around her, a couple of sizes too big. She didn't care. But then she cared so little about things nowadays, always pushing the feelings aside. Hopefully there would be a time for feelings later. For now she needed to concentrate on staying alive. She had promised Ron that she would go on. If it meant using Zabini to stay alive than so be it.


	2. The Beginning

**The Beginning**

Time passes slowly when the only thing you've got to study is the surface of a barren stone wall. Not that Hermione complained – this was a place as safe as any, and far more comfortable than most places she'd been forced to stay at during the last few years. Food was plentiful, she had time to rest. Her strength had returned, and so had her figure, her ribs no longer showed when she was undressed.

Minny came several times a day – to make the bed, bring in food, pick up and drop off laundry. She wasn't very talkative, although polite to Hermione's efforts. Somehow she seemed to understand Hermione's need to talk to someone, even if she didn't always answer back. Eventually Hermione gave up her attempts, settling for short conversations where she could commend Minny for all the hard work she did. Minny seemed happy at that. She brought her more food than before, made the dishes she had liked more often. Hermione figured she probably wasn't used to praise. She couldn't really imagine Zabini ever really noticing the house-elf's presence.

He came down to the dungeon to see her from time to time. Short visits once or twice a week to check if she was alright, asking if Minny provided her with what she needed. Hermione answered that she did, not mentioning her growing boredom in fear that he would punish Minny for something she could hardly control. Zabini seemed satisfied, nodding, once even mentioning that she looked 'healthier'. Judging from where he had looked when he made the comment, Hermione didn't think he had thought about her health. Not that she cared. Anything to break the routine of nothingness was a welcome distraction.

She tried to keep occupied. Tried to think of ways to exercising her mind. She'd counted the stones in the wall in front of the bed three times before she went on to counting the stones in the other three walls, the ceiling and the floor. There were 953 stones in the wall. 957 if you counted four small pebbles stuck in between the larger blocks of stone. She had lost count of how many times she counted them – the activity something she did almost every day just to pass time.

Hermione was in the middle of counting when the door suddenly appeared in the wall and Zabini walked into the room, disrupting her at stone number 548. Wondering what he wanted today, she looked up from her position on the bed, watching quietly as his eyes travelled from the wall to the finger she used to point at the stones she counted. She realised it was still pointing and quickly retracted her hand.

"You didn't eat properly today," Zabini said, ignoring her hand. "Are you sick?"

"No," Hermione responded almost automatically, by now used to his questions.

"Then why didn't you eat?" he replied.

"I wasn't hungry," Hermione answered, forcing herself not to sigh out loud. Zabini's constant control of her health was unnerving and made her feel more like a prisoner than someone in hiding.

"Nonsense! There is something wrong. You haven't even got properly dressed!" Zabini replied annoyed, looking at her nightgown. "Now tell me what it is at once. I cannot have you becoming sick. You'll be useless to me if you get sick or die. I don't like taking risks for nothing."

Hermione sighed. "If you must know I happen to have cramps today," she answered, feeling more than a little bit irritated with not even being allowed such information to be held private.

"What kind of cramps? Do you need a healer?"

"No! I need a wand to cast a spell that makes them go away," she said plainly, knowing he wouldn't give one to her.

"If you're sick a spell won't help," he said coldly. "Now tell me what's causing them."

"You really want to know?" Hermione said, not even bothering to hide her frustration anymore. It was bad enough having these ruddy cramps; she did not feel like discussing them with Zabini or anyone else for that matter. "Well in that case it is the kind of cramps I get once a month. The kind of cramps I've been having once a month since I was fourteen. The kind most women have once a mo–"

"I think I get the picture," Zabini interrupted her, suddenly looking rather uncomfortable. "I'm guessing Minny has been informed and is providing you with – well whatever it is that women use when – well," he said, too uncomfortable to even finish his sentence. Hermione would have laughed if the situation hadn't been so aggravating.

"I have been here for nearly two months, Zabini," she answered tiredly. "And that is a yes, just in case you didn't understand," she added.

Zabini snorted, looked at her for a while and left. Frowning, Hermione wished she hadn't been so rude. He was a human being after all, and it would be nice to have_someone_ to talk to. Even if that somone wasn't a nice someone. With a sigh she started to count the stones again. _Maybe it would be more interesting if she started from the bottom this time?_ she thought as she lifted her hand, trying to ignore the pain in her abdomen.

* * *

Something was out of place when she woke up the next morning. In the dark of the room she couldn't see what it was, but she had been in this place long enough to feel when something was out of ordinary. Fumbling with the matches by the bedside table, she managed to light the candle and lifted it to shine around in the room. It didn't take long to realise what had changed. 

On the small wooden table in the corner of the room, lay a book, a quill and a bottle of ink. Swallowing hard Hermione closed her eyes, almost expecting it to be a figment of her imagination that would disappear the moment she opened her eyes again. It didn't. Biting her lip, Hermione approached the table with caution. _What if it was only a cruel joke? What if it would wither into nothingness if she touched it? But then what if it didn't?_

Taking a deep breath, Hermione reached out and grabbed the book. It was still there. It was still real. It was an actual book! She hadn't held one for longer than she could remember. She'd hardly seen one for more than six months. And now there was a book in her room. A book she could touch and hold and smell as much as she liked. _i Smell/i_ She had almost forgotten the smell of a book. The glue of the bindings, the intoxicating scent of the paper – tenderly Hermione raised the book to her nose and inhaled. _Merlin, she had missed this!_

Trembling, Hermione sat down in the chair placed the book in front of her. Slowly she ran her hand over the surface of the cover before she opened it to the first blank page – just waiting to be written upon. She wished she could hold her hand steady as she reached for the quill and ink, once again closing her eyes and inhaling as the scent of the ink reached her nostrils. Dipping the quill into the ink with an almost religious reverence, she steadied her hand as she put the quill to the first page of the book.

She stopped herself almost the same instant as her hand started moving the quill, leaving a single blue line on the paper. She wanted to write. _Oh Merlin how she wanted to write! _She wanted to write about it all – about the war, about the battles, the losses, the running, the traitors, Ron. Most of all she wanted to write about Ron. She wanted to write _to_ Ron. As if he wasn't dead but just a letter away. Yet she couldn't. _What if she wasn't just writing for herself? What if Zabini would read what she wrote? He'd said he wasn't interested in anything she could tell him, but what if he would read what she wrote for his sheer amusement?_ She wouldn't put it past him. Actually, she doubted very much that he would even think of it as wrong. And if he did read what she wrote, and she were to write something he did find useful – would he then use it, even against her? Thinking about the way he had ruthlessly deceived Nott, someone he claimed to care about, she didn't think he would hesitate for a second to use anything she might write against her.

Putting the quill down, she got up from the chair, wringing her hands together to stop them from reaching out and grabbing the quill again. She ached to touch the book, her mind ached to be used, her hands ached to write – but she would not give in. She would not give him anything to use against her, or against anyone else. Still, the more she tried to concentrate on other things - breakfast, taking a bath, reorganising the trunk – her mind kept returning to the book and quill. Time and time again, her eyes darted to where they lay on the table. Time and time again, Hermione forced herself not to think about it, not to succumb to the temptation. Curling up on the bed, as far away from the table and book as she could get, she started to count the stones in the walls again. She counted the stones in the walls, in the ceiling, in the floor – she divided the numbers with each other, multiplied them with each other, tried every method of calculation she could think of to keep her mind of the book – yet not one of them worked and the book seemed to be the only thing she could actually think of.

With a sigh, Hermione gave up trying to focus on the latest calculation she had tried. Looking over at the book, she frowned. Maybe she didn't have to write anything important in it. If she didn't then Zabini wouldn't be able to use it against her. Just to hold the quill, listen to it scraping against the paper, seeing the words appear at her hand, using her mind – actually using it – it all seemed such a blessing. She could write nonsense. She could write words without meaning. Who said it actually had to make sense?

Getting up she once more approached the book, looking at the deep green cover as she sat down in front of it. Her hand picked up the quill almost of its own volition, yet when she put the tip of the quill to the parchment she had no clue as to what to write. _How could she possibly write without writing anything important? How would she be able to hold back all the things she wanted to say just to write utter nonsense instead? Yet she knew she had to. She couldn't risk giving Zabini any information he could use. He might think Voldemort was going to lose the war, but who was to say he wanted it that way? Who was to say that he wouldn't take the opportunity to change the odds in favour of Voldemort if he had the chance? Even if he didn't want Voldemort to win, would he care if he delayed his downfall? As long as he had his insurance – her – would he care if the war lasted another year or two? _She couldn't risk it. She couldn't – no wouldn't – give him the opportunity to change the odds of the war. They were bad enough as they were. Closing her eyes she tried to think about what to write. When she knew, it was with a bitter laugh she finally started to move the quill.

_The wall in front of me has 953 stones. 957 if you count the pebbles. The room in total has 4306 stones – that is including the ceiling and the floor. _

During the following months Hermione did little more than write. When she ate, the book was next to her plate. When she was lying in bed, the book was on her pillow. She sat on the floor, on the chair, on the bed and on the trunk – everywhere she could think of, the book in her lap or in front of her. She wrote down every calculation she had made about the stones in the room. She recited the twelve uses of dragon blood and noted down the recipe for at least twenty different advanced potions. She wrote down meaningless fairytales from her childhood. Stories where princesses were pretty and kind, where witches were mean and evil – where the princess always got her prince and where they lived happily ever after. She'd stopped believing in fairytales. She'd stopped believing in a happy ending. Yet she needed to write _something_and the stories were easy to remember even if it felt like they were written only to torment her with their lies of the perfect ending that never happened in real life.

She tried to figure out if Zabini was reading what she wrote or not, especially at first. It would have been easy to arrange, had she been able to use magic – but without it she resorted to methods learnt through detective stories and watching Bond-films with her father as a young girl. Easily detected if you knew about them, of course, but she hoped that Zabini wouldn't since he was raised away from everything Muggle. Surely he'd never stoop low enough to even look for them, would he?

Still what if he was? Or what if he didn't have to? There was nothing to say that the book in itself wasn't linked to another book somehow. That everything she wrote in this book could be read from another one. She couldn't trust the signs that indicated that Zabini didn't give her book any thought at all, and so she kept writing nonsense until – one day – the pages ran out and there was no more space to write on.

Staring at the scribbled page in front of her Hermione, felt the panic grow. In the joy of writing she'd never thought about rationing or saving. She had never thought she'd be here for so long. That she would actually have time to finish writing in the book before it was time to run again. That she one day find herself sitting, staring at the filled pages of the book, knowing that tomorrow would bring the same kind of emptiness and nothingness that every day had done before she got the book. Her days would once more be filled with counting stones.

Desperately she tried to find an empty page. Turning the pages, one by one, backwards and forwards, she prayed to find a forgotten page. A page stuck beside two other pages and thereby nearly invisible. A page with only a small amount of text written on it, so that she could write below the text already there.

There wasn't one.

Amongst all the pages in the book – there wasn't a single one she hadn't written on. Not a single one with space left for her to write on now. Growing more frantic, she searched the book again. And once she had – again. Over and over she flipped the pages of the book, until the panic started to fade and realisation truly hit – she wouldn't be writing anymore. She'd wasted an entire book on writing nonsense! She'd had the book for months and all she had written down was old meaningless fairytales. She hadn't written anything about Ron. Or about the war. Or about where she was and why. She had wasted the entire book on nothingness – and now there was no more book to write in.

Clutching the book in her arms, she started to rock back and forth on the bed, a whimper escaping her lips. She had wasted it all. She'd had the chance, but she'd wasted it. Just as everything had been wasted over the last few years. Her hopes. Her dreams. Every plan she'd ever had for the future – dead. They were dead and wasted, and now she was sitting with a wasted book in her arms, clutching it so hard it hurt, but what did that matter when everything else hurt as well. There were no happy endings. Ron was dead and so was everyone else she loved, and what did it matter that she was alive – what was the point of living when everything worth living for was gone?

She hadn't cried. Since Ron died, she hadn't cried. Not once had she allowed herself to fully mourn what she'd lost, too scared of what dams it might open. Now she was crying over a book. A silly book with nothing but nonsense in it. Only she wasn't, because she was crying about Ron, about the future they would never have, about the family they would never get to start. She was crying about the world that was lost when they lost the battle. She was crying for her parents not knowing where she was or if she was alive. She cried for Harry, for Neville, for Charlie and the twins, for Tonks and Moody and Arthur, for everyone that lost their life in this damned war that seemed never to end.

She didn't hear when Zabini entered the room, and was hardly aware of him speaking to her. Somewhere in the back of her mind behind all the tears she could here his voice asking if she was hurt. How could she explain that she was hurt beyond any repair? That no healer he offered to bring would ever be able to heal her heart? She couldn't and so she didn't answer. Nor did she think she could have answered had she tried, her voice no longer in her control. With his presence a deep wail that she didn't think belonged to her, but that she knew didn't belong to him filled the room.

He moved quickly, walking over to the bed, sitting down next to her. She felt his hand on her shoulder, shaking her, trying to move her to get a look at her. Repeatedly he asked her if she was injured or sick.

"Damn it! I need you to be healthy! Now tell me where it hurts," he swore, still trying to move her from the foetal position she had curled up in.

His hand was warm on her shoulder. It was human. It wasn't there because he cared. _He_ wasn't there because he cared. He was there because she was his insurance, an investment that he needed to take care of. But he _was_ human, and he _was_ there and she didn't care anymore because it had been too long since anyone had touched her, and she needed the human contact, even if it wasn't one out of care.

Wrapping her arm around him she cried into his lap. She still cradled the book, and it probably pressed hard into his thigh, but she didn't care because he was human and he was there, and Ron was dead and Harry was dead and she might as well be for all the good she did in here.

He didn't touch her anymore. His hands had fallen to his sides, his body had gone rigid and she could feel his discomfort just as she could feel his eyes burning through her skin. She imagined the look of distaste on his face at the thought of his insurance policy suddenly behaving irrationally. She didn't care, he was the closest thing to someone who cared – and he might be tense and uncomfortable, but he _didn't _push her away. He didn't move away. He just sat there, stiff and without moving, letting her cry into his lap, a lap that was warm even if his heart wasn't, and right now that would have to be enough. He was there, and he was human, and Ron was dead and her heart was bleeding – so who cared about Zabini anyway? It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. It was all dead anyway.


	3. Another Year Gone By

**Another Year Gone By**

Mornings can be cruel when they bring you the memories of yesterday, and when Hermione woke her head reminded her clearly of what had taken place the night before. It took her a few moments to come to her senses, and when she did, she was surprised to find herself beneath covers. Her head hurt and her eyes and nose felt swollen, but she was lying rather comfortably on her pillow and the covers were pulled over her. She couldn't remember doing that. But then she couldn't even remember falling asleep. The last she remembered was crying into Zabini's lap. Frowning she wondered why he had let her, why he hadn't pushed her away. It wasn't like him to do anything that didn't benefit him – yet she couldn't see how this would.

Groaning she sat up, almost automatically running her hand over her book. She hadn't realised she was still holding it. Forcing herself to put it down, she stumbled into the bathroom and poured herself a bath, trying to avoid her image in the mirror. She could imagine how she looked right now, and she didn't need to confirm her suspicions.

The hot water was soothing, and she felt slightly better after the bath, in spite of the fact that the prospect of a day without writing made her want to crawl back beneath the covers and pretend the world didn't exist. Still, she knew that wouldn't do her any good. Her stomach ached from too much crying and not eating the night before, and breakfast was what she needed, even if it would feel strange to eat it without the book next to her plate.

Walking back into the room, she stopped short in the doorway, staring at the table. For a moment, she didn't believe her eyes. Then she thought that the book lying next to her breakfast tray must be the same one she'd cried over last night. Yet, she remembered distinctly leaving that on the bed and this one didn't look as if it had ever been opened before, while hers was worn from months of being opened and closed daily. A quick glance to the bed confirmed what her mind already knew but her heart couldn't accept – the book on the table was indeed a new one.

Swallowing hard, she sat down by the table, the breakfast momentarily forgotten. She didn't understand. Zabini was selfish. She knew that. He even told her that! _'In the end, self preservation is the only thing that matters.' _So why this? He couldn't be after information – it made no sense. She'd wasted an entire book on nonsense, if he read it he'd know that. So if he had been after information, wouldn't he have given up by now? And if he had done that, why give her another book? Unless he wasn't after information, in which case the books served no purpose at all – so why then he bother in the first place?

Closing her eyes Hermione rubbed her temples. This was getting too much. Her head was already feeling as if it wanted to explode and the added confusion wasn't helping. With a sigh, Hermione started to eat her breakfast, hoping that the head ache would lose its grip if she at least got some food in her system. She realised long before finishing her breakfast that the head ache wasn't going to budge. There was simply too much going on in her mind, and the fact that she still felt emotionally drained didn't help matters either. Giving in, she undressed and crawled back into bed, for once grateful that the room was dark even in the middle of the day.

She wasn't sure what time it was when she woke up again. Day, night – there really wasn't any way to tell in here. Usually she went by the meals served. When breakfast was served it was morning, lunch came at noon, dinner in the evening – although, of course, Minny could have set serving times to fit her sleeping pattern. House-elves were known for adjusting to others after all. Still it was something to go on, and as good of an indication as any she supposed. Right now, however, there was nothing to say what time it was. Her head felt better though and her eyes didn't feel as puffy as before.

Stifling a yawn she sat up only to shriek and startle when the candles in the room were lit by themselves. As a witch she guessed she shouldn't have been surprised at the candle lighting magically, but she hadn't been around any other magic than that which Minny used for the past six months. Minny usually didn't magically light her candles; Hermione had ordinary Muggle matches for that task.

He was sitting on the chair next to the table, his fingers playing with the quill lying there as he watched her. Straightening up, she pulled the covers higher around her, wondering why he was there.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked calmly, spinning the quill between his fingers. "After yesterday…I wanted to make sure you weren't sick."

"No, yesterday was…no, I'm not sick," Hermione said, feeling both confused and a bit uncertain.

"Good," he answered. He watched her intently for a few moments, his eyes burning her, making her feel even more undressed than she already was. Clearing his throat, he stood up. "Well then – if you're not sick I'll just be on my way," he said plainly, turning his back towards her. Hermione watched his as he headed for the door.

"Zabini, wait!" she called out, just as he opened the door. Biting her lip, she took a deep breath and continued as he turned around to look at her. "I have to ask – why?"

"Why what?" he asked sceptically.

"Why the books? What purpose do they serve?"

"You don't want them?" he wondered, sounding surprised and slightly annoyed.

"No, that's not what I… I do, of course. That wasn't what I meant," Hermione hurried, scared that he might change his mind and take them back. This had been a mistake. She shouldn't have asked.

"Then I suggest you make yourself a little clearer," Zabini said testily.

"What purpose do they serve for _you_? What do you gain from giving them to me?" Hermione asked trying not to let the tone of his voice annoy her. There was a bit too much on line for that. Besides he _had_ given her the books, for whatever reason, and she couldn't pretend that she didn't appreciated it.

"Well I can't very well have you counting the stones on the wall. You'll go insane," he replied, as if it was the most evident reason in the world. For once, Hermione didn't know what to say. She had thought of a million different reasons for why Zabini had given her the books. This one hadn't even crossed her mind. "People don't listen to those that are insane," Zabini continued impatiently when she didn't answer.

"Ah, I see," Hermione answered, feeling stupid for not realising that sooner. Of course that was the reason. It made sense. It was the same reason why he cared about her health. He was just looking out for his investment.

"Besides, if something were to happen to you, those books could help me prove I saved you. Assuming that you write that in there, of course," he added plainly.

"Oh. Of course – I'll think of that," she responded. It did seem fair, after all. He had saved her and even if he didn't do it for any noble reasons, she was alive because of him. The least she could do was hold her end of the bargain.

"Good. If there wasn't anything else." He turned towards the door once more.

"Zabini," she said, hindering him once again. "I should probably–" Hesitating, she tried to figure out how to express what she wanted to say. Nothing really seemed appropriate. "Thank you," she finished. For a moment, Zabini looked surprised.

"I guess the courteous thing to do would be to say you're welcome," he then replied, sounding a bit strained and awkward.

"No need," Hermione assured him, feeling a bit ill at ease herself.

"Good," he nodded, turning and leaving the room before she had the chance to say anything else. Not that she had planned to. Her questions had been answered, and for now that was all she needed.

Zabini didn't call on her again for almost two weeks – not even to check on her health. Hermione could have been surprised, but given the nature of their last encounters she wasn't. He had been clearly uncomfortable, and was probably making sure to avoid her out of fear that she behave in the same emotional manner again. Hermione wasn't bothered by his absence as much as she was bothered by the fact that she actually missed his visits. It annoyed her to no end – and yet it was the truth. Zabini wasn't nice to her, he didn't care about anything other than protecting himself, but he was a person she could talk to, someone that at least seemed intelligent, and her short conversations with Minny couldn't begin to compare to having a thinking person in the room to talk to.

Nevertheless, Hermione was enjoying herself more now than she had before. She was still bored by the lack of activities, but at least now she dared to write about the things that mattered. Ron, the life she wouldn't have, the life she did have. She made sure to write about her stay in the dungeon, why she was there, how she got there – keeping her promise, and her end of the bargain they made when she first got here. But once that was done, she wrote about things that mattered. Things that might not be important to anyone else, but that were certainly important to her. It helped, she noticed, to write about them. It didn't take the pain away, but it did help her to deal with it. Until now, there really hadn't been a way for her to do that before.

She was in the middle of writing when the door appeared and burst open and a surprisingly flustered Zabini walked through the door. Confounded, Hermione wondered if she had ever seen him show an emotion that clearly before.

"Have you read this?" he asked her, throwing a book on the table before her. Hermione looked down on the book in front of her, a battered copy of_A picture of Dorian Grey_. Fisting her hand she forced herself not to reach out and touch it as she nodded.

"Yes I have," she answered as calmly as she could master.

"Good!" Zabini said, pulling out his wand and conjuring up a chair to sit in. "Then you might be able to tell me how a Muggle writer finds out about the existence of Horcruxes!" he continued plainly.

Hermione looked at him for a while, trying to understand. When she did, she couldn't help but to smile.

"Horcruxes? You mean the painting?" she said surprised. "I never thought of it that way. I guess it has _some_ similarities, although I doubt very much that Oscar Wilde ever thought–"

"_Some_ similarities? I thought you've said you've read the book! The painting containing his soul? Him losing a part of what makes him human because of it? Him dying when the painting is destroyed?" Zabini exclaimed. "Sure, he's got his facts wrong – but what else is to be expected from a Muggle. It is still clear that he _does_ know about the existence of Horcruxes. Of that there can't be any doubts!"

"Well I disagree, Zabini. There may be likenesses, but they may very well be entirely coincidental. A picture of Dorian grey is a book about morality – what is it? How does it affect us? It stems from the belief in those days that one's sin etched itself in one's face – that you could see who was a moral person and who was not. It explores the possibilities for those who wouldn't be affected. The picture is only a means for Wilde to–"

"Clearly, it was quite some time since you read the book!" Zabini interrupted her again. "If you had read it recently, knowing what you know today you would of course have another opinion," he continued. "How fast can you read it?" he then asked.

Hermione stared at him, for once stunned into silence. She tried unsuccessfully to remember the last time she'd read a book for pleasure. _Was he really serious? Was he actually giving her the book to read?_

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

"Uhm…a couple of days," Hermione answered trying to collect her thoughts.

"I'll be back in three," Zabini said tersely before turning and heading out the door, the new chair vanishing as he left the room. Hermione stared at the door, then at the book. She didn't need three days to finish it. She didn't need any time to finish it. It was already one of her favourites and she had read it more times than she could remember. She knew half of the story by heart already. Not that it mattered. Just the thought of reading again, of discussing a book, any book, brought her more joy than she'd felt in years. Picking up the book and running her hand over the covers, Hermione moved to the bed, curling up with her feet under her like she used to when she was a little girl living with her parents. It was surprising really, how something she hadn't done in so long could feel so natural to do again. Inhaling deeply she opened the book and began to read.

During the following three days Hermione realised that she'd almost forgotten the pleasure of reading. To be completely absorbed in the story you were reading, to see, hear and feel what the character did. To be able to forget your surroundings and the circumstances you were living in for the benefit of someone else's. She had always liked that about books. She had never needed it as much as she did now.

By the time Zabini returned, Hermione had already read the book twice – revelling in the world of Dorian Grey. What she hadn't done was change her mind. She was still convinced that the painting was just a symbol; a means through which Oscar Wilde made his point. Zabini was just as convinced of the opposite, and he spared no energy telling her that she was a fool not to see something so obvious. Hermione didn't mind. Debating had always been something she'd enjoyed.

"Did you not read the book as I told you to?" Zabini said agitated, actually standing up from the conjured chair. "I thought you were supposed to be smart!" he said pacing the small room.

"I did read the book – I just don't agree with you," Hermione answered as calmly as she could, surprised to see Zabini show this much emotion. She had hardly thought him capable of that. "Haven't you before?" she then asked, the worn cover of the book and Zabini's reaction not truly a match.

"Of course I have!" Zabini snorted. "I just didn't know about Horcruxes the last time I did!" Hermione bit her lip, on the one hand afraid to break the discussion – debating being something she'd missed more than she'd realised. On the other she needed to know.

"And how did you learn about those exactly?" she asked nearly holding her breath as the words escaped her lips.

Zabini stopped mid-track and turned to watch her. "Through Slughorn of course!" he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "A bottle of fine wine and a few crystallised pineapples and he was very chatty. Told me all about Horcruxes – about how he told Voldemort about them. He was more reluctant to tell me how he told Potter about them, but a bit more persuasion and a promise that Voldemort would leave him alone and he was talking merrily about that too."

"Oh, I see," Hermione answered, wondering what she was most surprised about – that she hadn't thought of that possibility or that Zabini had.

"Don't worry about it, I erased his memory of the entire meeting, and to make sure he wouldn't tell Voldemort about Potter knowing about the Horcruxes – I erased that memory too," he said casually.

"You can do that? Erase a memory that is several years old without erasing someone's entire memory?" Hermione asked surprised. She had only ever heard of erasing specific memories if they were relatively new.

"Well it isn't easy, of course," Zabini said sounding slightly proud. "I think I accidentally erased a memory of some dog at the same time – but it can be done, and the damages to the surrounding memories shouldn't be too extensive," he continued, shrugging his shoulders. "Now should we get back to the topic at hand?" he added, not even noticing the stunned look on Hermione's face. Nodding, she wondered if she would ever understand him. How could he be agitated over a book, but not show any emotion at all over damaging someone's memory?

"Sure," she answered, trying to push away the feelings of discomfort while enjoying the contents of their debate. She didn't persuade him, nor did she really think she could have ever persuaded him. But he didn't persuade her either, and so it didn't feel as if it mattered. He stayed until Minny brought her dinner, tossing her another book on the table as he left.

"I'll see you in three days," he said as he closed the door behind himself and the house-elf.

During the following months Hermione's life suddenly filled with books again. Every three or four days Blaise kept bringing her books only to return to discuss them with her later. He never agreed with her opinion, usually sided with the bad guys and almost always thought the good characters were either stupid, incompetent or weak – often he thought they were all three. She argued her case well – no longer scared to tell him her mind or to get agitated when they disagreed with each other. He never seemed to mind her outbursts and had quite a few himself, and he never changed his opinion just as he never managed to change hers.

She didn't know when she started to think of him as Blaise rather than Zabini, or when he started to call her Hermione instead of Granger. They never discussed it, and usually pretended not to notice – but things still changed between them somehow, and somewhere along the line, Hermione started to feel less like a prisoner and more like someone actually in hiding than she had before.

It was nice to read again, even if she didn't get to decide what books to read herself. He never asked her opinion on the matter – and she never stressed it. Reading was nice enough, and the anticipation of what book she was to read was surprisingly pleasant. She sometimes wondered why he kept returning. She never managed to change his opinion, nor did he ever manage to change hers. She wasn't even sure if either would have liked it so much if they had. She was fairly sure she wouldn't have. She liked the resistance, the challenge, the heated arguments and she got a better insight to who Blaise Zabini really was; selfish, cunning and composed – but also passionate, strong-willed and intelligent. She didn't really like the first part of his personality. She found she didn't really mind the second.

She was flipping through the pages of _The Merchant of_ _Venice_ - the latest of the books Blaise had given her to read. He was late. Or later than usual that was. At least if her sense of timing wasn't completely thrown off. When he finally came, his hair was dripping with water.

"You're wet," Hermione stated plainly, trying not to let her irritation with him for being late show.

"It's raining," he answered with a frown.

"Really?" she asked, more excited to hear about the world outside than she would like to admit.

"Well obviously!" Blaise replied pointedly, pointing to his wet hair. "So typical of this time of year," he muttered to himself while conjuring up his chair to sit in.

"What time of year would that be?" Hermione asked, unable to refrain herself.

"November. Why do you ask?" he answered while sitting down, throwing his ankle up to rest on his thigh as was his custom.

"November?" Hermione repeated quietly, letting his question hang unanswered. "I've been here that long? That's what – almost a year?" she asked looking at him.

"That sounds about right," he replied casually.

"A year. I missed autumn," she said dully, almost more to herself than to him.

"What's there to miss?"

"You don't like the autumn?" she asked surprised.

"Like? Why would I? It's cold, windy – rainy," he said critically, once more pointing to his wet hair.

"Colourful, beautiful, powerful," she replied with a slight smile.

"You can hardly go outside without getting soaked," he protested.

"You can stay inside and read while listening to the wind howl and the rain smatter against your window," she countered quickly.

"You can read outside while soaking up the sun in the summer."

She smiled at his answer, knowing he only got that tone of voice when he thought he'd said something that couldn't be disputed.

"No thanks. Shade works fine by me. And summer isn't as beautiful as autumn," she said calmly.

"Well clearly we don't agree," he answered with a frown, not one too fond of being contradicted. "Now should we concentrate on the play instead?" Hermione nodded, but she couldn't help it, even in the midst of their discussion her thoughts lingered on the season, on what she missed, on what she didn't get to see. The red leaves blowing in the wind. The birds moving south. The rainstorms to watch from inside.

"You aren't listening!" Blaise said annoyed. Hermione snapped back into reality.

"I'm sorry," she said, knowing he had been right. He sighed.

"Well if that's what I have to do to get your attention," he muttered, pulling out his wand and directing it at the wall opposite the door. A window appeared, showing her a huge park-like garden, filled with trees with red and yellow leaves. Piles of leaves blowing around in the wind – covering the entire ground. Rain smattering hard on the windowsill. "It's the view from the library. And no, it isn't there to stay. It's traceable magic and everyone knows I don't use the dungeons. I cannot afford to keep it there for more than an hour or so," he said calmly while Hermione ran her hand over the glass. "Will you watch that for the entire hour or will you get back to discussing the play?" he asked.

"The play, right," she answered, casting one last longing look at the window before returning her attention to the book in her hand. "Thank you, Blaise," she added softly. Blaise snorted and got turned his attention back to the book. Smiling she did the same.

To her joy, Hermione soon noticed that the window wasn't a one time occurrence. Every day, for half an hour to an hour, the window appeared in her room, giving her a glimpse of the outside world as it changed from autumn to winter. Every day, Hermione waited in her chair, until the window appeared. She never knew when that would be – its appearance always random to make detection hard if not impossible. Yet Hermione didn't miss it once and refused to go to bed before it had appeared.

She learned to like the randomness of the window. It allowed her to see what she would otherwise not have seen. She saw the trees glow red in the light of the sunrise, saw the rainbow as the sun broke through the rainy clouds. She watched a thunderstorm rip the sky apart in the dead of night, and fell asleep to the calming sound of the rain against the pane of the window. Yet with the beauty of autumn, came the reminder of what once was, and with every read leaf that fell came the memory of someone else that fell. Thoughts of the Burrow, of a happier time filled with red haired people, mingled with thoughts and worries of the present. How many Weasleys had died? Were any of them still alive?

The snow of winter started to fall before the last of the leaves had fallen from the trees. A battle between the red of autumn and the white of winter fought every day – the snow falling at night – the rain melting it at day. Hermione watched as the leaves struggled in a war they couldn't win. She watched as they lost the battle. She watched as the snow covered the world and enveloped it like cotton. With it came some ease – as if her heart was enveloped in the snow with the rest of the world. And then came another pain, the pain of knowing that sometime soon it would be Christmas.

She wondered if people still celebrated Christmas. If her parents would cook dinner on Christmas eve, share presents on Christmas morning – or if they would sit around wondering where she were. Wondering if she was still alive. She wondered how far away Christmas was. Blaise had only told her November, she had no way of knowing if that had been the beginning or the end of the month. For all she knew Christmas might very well be over already. She could ask of course, but then knowing would be worse, and so she let the books draw her in, the conversations and discussions take up her time, and tried to forget all about Christmas.

Yet for all her tries Hermione couldn't block out New Years eve. The window came late that night, and she could see the fireworks in the distance. People were celebrating. Another year passed. Another year of war and death was over. And she hadn't helped. She had spent her time in a small room hiding from the world, running from the fight. How many had died this year? How many more would die before this war was over?

He entered quietly, yet she sensed his presence behind her back already before he spoke.

"It's New Years I see," she said before he could speak, not even turning around to look at him. He hummed his affirmation. "I don't know what they're celebrating for. Voldemort is still in charge. The right side is still dying," she said quietly, staring at the fireworks.

"Your side _will_ win. I do believe that," he answered her softly, in a voice that she would have called comforting, had it come from anyone else.

"I know you do. You wouldn't keep me here if you didn't," she stated calmly. He didn't answer. There was no need. They both knew it was the truth. "I should be out there. I should fight with them. I shouldn't hide in here like some coward."

"What's wrong with staying alive?" he asked, coming around to sit on the table next to her, the darkness of his skin contrasting to the light fabric of his robes as he placed his hand on his knee.

"It's wrong when others are dying because of it," she answered plainly.

"Why should you sacrifice your life for others? Would they do the same for you?" he asked. She turned to look at him. She didn't like it when he spoke that way. She liked to believe that they would. His right eyebrow was raised as he watched her, waiting for her reply.

"They are, aren't they?" she asked, meeting his gaze. Taking his challenge. "I just wish I felt like it mattered. Like _I_ mattered," she continued, turning back her attention to the window. "I don't expect you to understand, but I _need_ to feel useful. I'm of use to no one while I'm here."

"You're of use to me."

And there it was. The unadulterated truth. The one reason she was sitting here looking out a magic window instead of fighting the war. The one reason she was still alive, still breathing and talking and living. She was of use to one single person in the world. A Death Eater in need of insurance. It shouldn't make her feel better. And yet somehow it did.


	4. Trust

**Trust**

Most New Years bring promises of change and hope for a new start. Hope for something better. Hope for a new and better world. For Hermione this New Year only brought routine. Yet in routine there was comfort. The comfort of food, of a warm bed, of books and intelligent conversation. Hermione had learnt long ago not to take comfort for given, and not to frown of the safety that lay therein.

Blaise still brought books every three days. Always classics, always well known. He debated them with a skill and passion she wouldn't have given him credit for when she first arrived, even if she still thought his conclusions were odd and most of the time just plain wrong.

It was when Blaise brought her a copy of Sherlock Holmes, _The Speckled Band_ that she started thinking about mysteries, or more accurately – about the mystery of him. He really was a puzzle. She couldn't understand why he kept bringing her books or talking to her. Just as she couldn't understand why he still let the window appear in her wall everyday with the added risk it posed to him. There was no gain in it for him as far as she could see. Yet she couldn't imagine him doing things for any other reason.

The first time the idea occurred to her she tried to push it away, but the questions kept spinning around in her head and the more she thought about it the more confused she felt. For every fact she knew about Blaise there seemed to be something else she knew that contradicted that fact. For everything he did or said there seemed to be something to indicate the opposite.

As he sat commending the murderer of the story for being clever enough to think about such a sophisticated method of killing, Hermione could hardly concentrate on their debate at all. She knew she argued the need for compassion for the victims with less skill than she normally did, and she could even see the disappointment in Blaise's eyes when he didn't get the level of opposition he had got used to.

"May I ask something?" Hermione had interrupted him as he was talking about the inconsistency between the cleverness of the murderer when it came to methods and the stupidity of him when it came to everything else. Frowning and huffing at the interruption, Blaise had still nodded at her to go on with her question.

"Why do you discuss these things with me? I mean instead of one of your friends?" Hermione had asked. "Not that I don't enjoy these discussions, I do," she had added quickly, remembering past times she'd asked questions. "I just think you would enjoy them more if you had them with a friend, would you not?"

"A friend?" Blaise had replied, looking surprisingly amused. "If I had a friend to discuss these things with, don't you think I would?" he had said sarcastically. "Besides, friends are overrated. Friendships make you vulnerable, make you less inclined to do what is necessary, open you up for attacks or betrayal. I am not alive because I trust people. I'm alive because I trust no one," he had finished coldly. Hermione had nodded silently, wishing she hadn't understood what he meant. There had been a time when she wouldn't, but trust had died, and she had been able to see his point.

That evening Hermione had barely been able to sleep. Getting up from bed, she had paced the chilled stones of the floor until her feet were as cold as ice. Too many thoughts had spun in her head to allow her to rest, and that's when she had finally grabbed her book and quill and started writing. Sorting her thoughts out logically would help, she had been sure of it.

By now her writing covered almost two pages, and yet she wasn't closer to solving the mystery. There were all the pieces of the puzzle laid down in the book in front of her – and yet they didn't seem to fit together.

They were only short statements, facts and beliefs mixed together. _Death Eater –_ _fact._ A tangible piece of evidence of which there could be no doubt. _Believes Voldemort will lose the war – probably true_. It wasn't a fact as tangible as others, but it did seem both likely and logical. He had no reason to keep her here – alive – otherwise, and she had seen him lie to Malfoy, and therefore indirectly to Voldemort about her being there. Which led her into statement number three: _He could lie without hesitation, without regret and without any tell tale signs_.

And still the statement following that was: _He hasn't lied to me_. In brackets: _(That I know of)._ Taking a deep breath, she looked a bit more at the statement, almost raising her quill. To add or subtract she wasn't sure. Eventually she let her arm fall back down and moved on.

_He likes to read – fact.  
He says Voldemort's name without fear – fact.  
He calls him the Dark Lord in conversation with others – fact.  
He has killed without regret.  
He is selfish.  
He is ruthless.  
He has few or no friends.  
He saved my life._

Hermione stared at the statement. It was true. She couldn't deny it. He had saved her life. He was taking a risk keeping her here. He was taking a risk every time he let the window appear in her wall and every time he lied about knowing her whereabouts. Of course, she couldn't be sure that he had to. Malfoy had seemed convinced about Nott's guilt in her escape. They might never have brought the matter up with Blaise again.

He still took a risk though. She added that fact to the bottom of the list, right after the sentence – He respects house-elves. The statement was followed by a question mark in brackets. Stopping the movement of her hand, she looked at it, thinking about the day she'd found that out. If it was true that was. But then again he had had no reason to lie about it.

It had been one of the days Blaise was supposed to come and discuss the latest book they had been reading, yet Hermione had been surprised to see him arrive when Minny was serving her dinner. Blaise usually avoided coming down before or while she was eating, and he was usually not dressed in quite as spectacular robes as he had been that day.

They had been Slytherin green, with delicately embodied silver serpents around the high collar and the wrists. Looking closer Hermione had been able to see that the serpents were enchanted to move, and even though she hadn't been fond of the thought, she had been forced to admit that the green colour looked rather fetching against Blaise's dark skin.

She hadn't been that surprised when he told her he had to forgo their discussion in favour of a dinner-party at the Malfoys, but she had been the more surprised when he turned to Minny and told her to get ready to leave.

"I didn't know it was custom to bring your house-elves to parties?" she had asked in surprise after Minny had Disappareted out of the room.

"It's not unusual," Blaise had answered simply. "And Minny is handy to have around. She has big ears and knows when to keep her mouth shut, making her a very good spy."

"Minny spies for you?" Hermione had asked in surprise.

"Of course. Knowledge is crucial to staying on top, and house-elves make perfect spies. After all, most wizards pay little or no attention to them, and even if they do they almost always underestimate them," Blaise had stated.

"You really think so?" Hermione had wondered. "That house-elves are underestimated?"

"That's not a matter of opinion, Hermione," Blaise had replied quickly. "That's a matter of fact. And if house-elves ever were to see their own worth and demand treatment thereafter the wizarding community would be at a loss."

He had left her with that. With words echoing her own, spoken so many times to deaf ears over the years. It didn't seem right that a Death Eater with a house-elf of his own would be the one to finally understand what she meant. Writing the comment in her book she had spent several minutes watching it before she raised her hand and added the question mark. She couldn't be sure, after all, and just taking his word for it had seemed to rash an action.

Closing the book and putting it down next to the bed where she sat, Hermione picked up the copy of the book she was supposed to read instead, _Phantom of the Opera_ . She had already finished it the night before, but she wanted to look through it one more time before Blaise came down.

It was a well known story for her, but one she hadn't read before. She remembered her mother taking her to see the musical in London when she was around fourteen. She had fallen in love with the story then – the setting, the costumes, the phantom's desperation and Christine's search for love and acknowledgement.

Reading the book had been quite different from seeing the show, but the general story was the same and as she read she hummed the music from the musical to herself and imagined the costumes on the characters. If she tried she could even remember the sound of Christine's voice and the despair in the way the phantom, or Erik as she now had become used to thinking of him, moved.

Looking at the cover of the book it seemed almost new, and Hermione couldn't help to wonder if this was the first time Blaise had read this one. It wasn't the type of book he normally brought her. In fact it was the first book he brought her that dealt with love in any shape or form, and even if the love in _Phantom of the Opera_ in many ways was dark and tragic, Hermione had been surprised to see the book when Blaise brought it for her to read.

His behaviour when he arrived seemed to confirm her suspicions. Even if Blaise didn't tell her that he hadn't read the book before, it quickly became clear that he didn't like it, and Hermione really couldn't see him rereading a book he didn't like.

He frowned at the story, thought Erik was pathetic and stupid for not using the hold he had on Christine to his own advantage. He showed no surprise that Christine chose to leave Erik when she was offered the choice and he snorted when Hermione argued that it hadn't been an easy decision on Christine's part and that Christine was torn between her love for Erik's brilliance and her fear of his madness.

"Of course she wasn't!" Blaise snorted disdainfully. "She is just like any other woman. She didn't _love_ Erik! She was attracted to him because of what he could do for her, but the moment she saw what he looked like she was repulsed. She chose Raol because he was the more attractive one, and then she convinced herself it was love. Just like women always have done!"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Hermione responded, feeling slightly offended at the implication.

"Exactly what I said," Blaise replied firmly. "Women pretend to be _'in love'_every time they are in lust. That way they can walk around feeling good about bedding the men they fancy, calling women honest enough to admit that they want sex, tarts," he finished.

"So what you are saying is that we women can't love?" Hermione snapped, now definitely offended.

"No, what I'm saying is that there is no such thing as love!" Blaise answered back. "It's an illusion, created to make humans feel better about wanting sex," he continued disdainfully. "But yes, women are more prone to using that illusion of love to justify their actions of lust than men," he finished, folding his arms across his chest.

"That isn't true. There is a huge difference between lust and love!" Hermione argued, upset.

"Of course there is. One is real and the other is made up. I'd say that's a fairly large difference," Blaise said sarcastically.

"Love isn't made up and if you'd ever been in love you'd never say that! Lust is temporary – it's attraction, hormones. Love is more, love is forever, it's–" Hermione responded heatedly.

"There is no such thing as forever!" Blaise snapped, getting up from his chair as he interrupted her. "Just as there is no such thing as love. I've seen it too many times – the promises of love, of forever – it never lasts. Never has, never will, because love doesn't exist, and anyone claiming to love is a liar," Blaise nearly shouted.

"_I am not a liar! I loved Ron, and don't you ever_ _dare_ _tell me that wasn't real_!" Hermione yelled back, getting off the bed to stand in front of him.

"Then I won't," Blaise replied coldly, a hard expression on his face as he turned his back on her and headed towards the door, tossing a new book on the bed before he closed it behind him. Hermione stared as the door disappeared into the wall, her insides still burning from anger. Growling to herself she stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Later that night as Hermione picked up her book and quill, she pondered his words for quite some time, wondering what he could have meant when he said he'd seen it too many times. Her anger had died fairly quickly as the impact of those words had finally sunk in.

Blaise wasn't older than she was, and surely he couldn't have loved and lost that many times. Besides Blaise didn't seem like the type to fall in love. He cared too much about himself to open up to someone else. Yet somehow, although she was quite sure he hadn't meant to, he had opened up to her tonight. Through admitting that he did not believe in love, Blaise had undoubtfully revealed more about himself than he was probably aware of.

Biting her lip Hermione pondered the conversations they'd had as she added another note to her ever growing list of random facts about Blaise.

_He does not believe in love._

When she was finished she looked at the statement for a while before letting her eyes scan the others. Having read through them earlier, only one caught her attention this time. _He hasn't lied to me. (That I know of)_. Hesitating for only a short while, Hermione lifted her quill and crossed over the last part.

Taking a deep breath she stared at the thick black line. She wasn't sure what it meant, or even if it meant anything at all. Yet it felt like it did. _Could it even be that she trusted him? But she couldn't, could she? She had seen trust die – so how could she think of trusting anyone, let alone him?_ Still, thinking about it, she couldn't deny that she did.

Closing the book and curling down beneath the covers, Hermione tried to push the thought away. Yet a tiny voice of fluttering hope kept whispering in her ear.

Maybe trust didn't die. Maybe it just needed to rest for a while.


	5. Courage

**Courage**

Some realisations are comforting; others are unsettling. For Hermione, the realisation that she had come to trust Blaise was both. On the one hand, there was the warm feeling that came with trust, with knowing that you didn't need to question every piece of information you were given. On the other hand was the unsettling worry of trusting someone who you knew to be selfish, emotionally detached and ruthless enough to cause the death of allies and tamper with people's memories without thinking twice.

Yet, curled up in her chair with a cup of tea, watching the snow slowly melt away in the morning sun, she reasoned that, that in itself could be a comfort. She never needed to wonder what Blaise's motives where – he'd told her that, plain and simple, it was all about him staying alive when the war was over. It wasn't a reason you offered as a lie. Someone lying would have talked about right and wrong, about making a difference, about making up for past mistakes. Telling someone you wanted to save your own life and that you cared little for the outcome of the war was not the thing you told as a lie. It was simply too blunt and too unsympathetic for that.

It was that way with everything he'd let her find out about him, she realised as she watched the window disappear and turn into the same cold stone wall she'd seen so many times before. From the things he'd told her to the things she'd found out through his actions, they all had this in common. They were all too unpolished and unfavourable for them to be lies. He didn't trust anyone, and expected no trust in return. He had no friends, and claimed to crave none. He didn't believe in love and he was prepared to do just about anything to have his way. No, those weren't lies. If anything they should have served as powerful reasons not to trust him, but in a war things weren't normal. Things got turned upside-down, and things that were once considered bad were turned into the only things you could trust. Hermione sighed. She much preferred things the way they used to be, when good was good and bad was evil. Things had been so much easier then.

Fingering the book Blaise had left her for a moment; Hermione decided against it and left it lying on the table. Normally she would have thrown herself over the book, but today there were too many thoughts running through her mind. She could read the book later, she concluded, getting up and heading off into the bathroom. Warm baths had always had an excellent effect on her mind, and if anything she needed to think.

Yet the bath did nothing to help her come to any kind of conclusion. She still couldn't decide if she was happy or scared about the prospect of trusting Blaise. Although, she mused, it did seem a bit late to think like that at the moment. No matter if she wanted to or not, she couldn't deny the fact that she did trust him, just as she couldn't deny that he had taken better care of her than any of those she would rather have trusted. She had a, maybe not so nice, but at least comfortable room to stay in. She had plenty of clothes so she was never cold, even in spite of the fact that the room was situated in the dungeons. Food was plentiful – possibly even too plentiful judging from the way the fabric of her robes had started strained against her hips lately and the way her stomach wasn't as flat as it used to be. She had her window once a day, books to read, a diary to write in. And maybe it was just that simple. Maybe that was reason enough. This was the one place she'd been in since the final battle was over that she hadn't needed to run from. This was the one place she had been able to rest, gain her strength, relax enough to enjoy things like books and food again. Maybe the fact that she was still alive and well after almost a year and a half told her more about her ability to trust Blaise than anything else did.

Determined not to let things she couldn't influence or change, take up her mind she picked up the book once more. Yet instead of opening it she stayed curled up on her bed watching the cover. She didn't know why, but she just didn't feel her normal urge to read. Yet what else was there to do? With a sigh, she tried to open the book.

She halted even before she started. A scribbled piece of writing on the first blank page of the book caught her attention before she even got to the text. It was a woman's handwriting, a signature denoting ownership. Curious Hermione looked at the name; all resolve to start reading blown away. It wasn't a name she recognised. Nor was it a name that in any way seemed to be connected to Blaise. Kamilah Swanson. Unusual first name, the more common last name. Hermione bit her bottom lip.

It was the first time Hermione had seen any type of writing in the books that had been brought to her. Maybe that was the reason she found it so interesting, because she could really not think of any other reason. It was just a name, after all. The handwriting was actually more interesting than then name. It was clearly feminine, fairly large and very tidy and straight. Still, she couldn't see why it should be interesting at all.

Still she _was_ interested. She wondered who it belonged to. How the woman was connected to Blaise, if she was connected to him at all. Yet she thought she must be. Blaise didn't seem to be the type to go out and buy a used book when he could spend money on a new one. Of course it could be someone completely mundane, like an aunt or a cousin, yet the idea that the woman might be someone interesting tantalised her mind and wouldn't let her go.

When Blaise arrived three days later, the thought of the woman who had once owned the books still occupied her mind. But she had managed to read the book, and when they started talking she could engage in their conversation, if still with less presence of mind than usual. Listening to him go on about how horribly cliché the characterisation of the villain was, something she actually agreed with for once, she still couldn't help but to think about who the woman was. Biting her lip, she took a deep breath and a plunge.

"Who is Kamilah Swanson?" she interrupted him.

For once Blaise seemed thrown and didn't seem to know what to say. "How did you…?"

"Her name is written in the book," Hermione clarified, holding up the book.

Blaise nodded and frowned slightly. "If you must know, she _was_my mother," he said plainly.

"Swanson was her maiden name then?" Hermione asked, unable to refrain herself.

Blaise snorted out a short laugh. "You're assuming Kami was British," he said disdainfully. "She was not – her maiden name was Besoné. Not that it mattered, she changed surnames rather often," he finished tersely, snatching the book up and flipping through the pages.

"You called your mother Kami?" Hermione asked, too surprised to stop herself even if she could tell by Blaise's voice and body language that this was a conversation he did not want to have.

Blaise sighed and lowered the book. "And what do you suppose I should call her?" he almost snapped. "Her full name seems a bit formal, don't you think?"

"I would assume you'd call your mother, Mum," Hermione replied instinctively. "She's the one who raised you, after all. The one who took care of you when you were sick, who held you when you cried–"

"If that is your definition of a mother I suspect I'd start calling Minny Mum any day now," Blaise cut her off. "And if you did not understand me earlier, that is the end of this conversation! So shall we get back to the book?" he asked pursing his lips together.

Hermione nodded, knowing she'd overstepped the boundaries. Still she couldn't help but wonder, even if it wasn't any of her business. In the corner in her eye, she watched as he opened the book, a bit rougher than he usually treated books. A pang of guilt ran trough her. She should have known better. She should have known him better.

"Blaise?" she said tentatively.

"What?" he snapped annoyed, looking up from the book.

Hermione bit back the surge on annoyance at his tone and forced herself to take a deep breath before she continued. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have meddled in your personal business," she said calmly, pretending she hadn't heard his harsh tone.

"No, you shouldn't have!" Blaise retorted, still annoyed. Muttering something he then lowered his book completely and rolled his eyes. "And I accept your apology." Hermione smiled slightly as they returned to discuss the book. It was possibly the politest he had ever been to her so far, at least when annoyed, and she had no problems settling for that – even if she did find it odd that he called his mother by name. Then again, it really wasn't any of her business.

Still, after Blaise had left, Hermione couldn't help but to think about it. It did add powerful information to his character, and when she opened her book and looked at her notes, some things seemed to make more sense now when she had new information.

It had been obvious to her he wasn't too fond of his mother, and judging from what he had said, they could hardly have had a close relationship when Blaise was growing up. Suddenly Blaise's reasons for respecting house-elves were so obvious, as was the reason he didn't believe in love. _'She changed surnames rather often'_, he'd said. So was it even strange that he didn't believe in ever lasting love? She wondered about his father, if he had been different. Then again, it would probably not be wise to ask, since Blaise did seem to want to keep these things private. Not that she could blame him for that. She certainly didn't talk about her family, so why should he? Hermione sighed. She didn't like the idea of letting go of a mystery. Yet in this case she thought she should. Frowning she put her book and quill down and started getting ready for bed. It was no use dwelling on it now when she had decided to leave it be after all, she thought as she slipped into her nightgown and stepped into the bathroom to wash up for the night.

Yet during the next three days Hermione still found it hard to let go. It wasn't in her nature to stop questioning and wondering, and no matter how hard she tried, the questions kept spinning in her head. Nevertheless, she had promised herself not to let her curiosity get the best of her, and as she sat in her bed, waiting for him to arrive she promised herself not to ask questions she knew he wouldn't answer.

Only he didn't arrive. Not at the time he usually did, anyway. Dinner had come and left hours ago, or at least so it seemed, and Hermione was still sitting in bed waiting for Blaise to turn up. As she felt her eyelids grow heavier and her yawns grow bigger, Hermione wondered if she should really stop waiting and just go to bed. But then again, she wasn't fond of the idea of being waken had she already fallen asleep, nor did she like the thought of Blaise seeing her in her nightgown again. She much preferred his company when she was fully clothed. Stifling another yawn, she opted for waiting a few more minutes at least, before she turned in for the night.

She woke up the following morning with a stiff neck and soreness in the cheek where it had pressed against the book she'd had been lying next to her on the bed when she fell asleep. She couldn't really remember when she had fallen asleep, but then she didn't really care either. She felt annoyed, and more than a bit angry at Blaise for not showing up. Massaging her neck, she stumbled into the bathroom. Her mouth felt dry and her teeth fuzzy from not brushing the night before and despite sleeping, she still felt sleep-fogged. She knew she probably had horrible morning breath, and the breakfast she knew was waiting for her had little appeal for her now. She decided to let breakfast wait and take a bath instead, and took the opportunity to brush her teeth while the water filled the bathtub.

She was still annoyed and angry when she went back out to eat her breakfast. If Blaise had got held up he could have at least notified her in advanced. It wouldn't have been that hard for him to tell Minny to bring her a message. Then she wouldn't be feeling the strain in her neck and she wouldn't still have the imprint of a book on her cheek.

Sitting down by the table, Hermione suddenly felt a new surge of anger shoot through her. Next to the plate was a new book. No note, no message, nothing to say that Blaise was sorry or that in any way acknowledge that he had caused her trouble. Frowning she picked the book up and looked at it briefly before tossing it aside on the small table. A new book usually made her happy. But a new book today could only mean one thing. Not only had Blaise failed to show up yesterday – he had no plans to show up today either.

Frowning, Hermione picked at her food, stabbing the kipper with her fork instead of eating. She was quite sure this was deliberate on Blaise's part. He had allowed her to prepare for a discussion, probably while knowing very well that he didn't intend to show up. After all, since when had Blaise ever been held up and unable to show up before? _Not once_. Every single time since he first brought her the worn copy of _The Picture of Dorian Grey_ had he been on time. Not once had it been more, or less, than three days between his visits. As far as Hermione could see, there was really only one logical reason why he hadn't shown up this time. He was angry at her for the questions she'd asked.

It really wasn't fair. There was no reason for him to be upset, she hadn't known who she was asking about and she certainly hadn't known that his relationship with his mother was as strained as it seemed to be. Besides, she had apologised – and he had accepted her apology. He had no right to treat her this way because of something she hadn't been aware of doing!

Frustrated and irritated, Hermione gave up on eating. Nor did she feel like reading and so she settled for crawling down beneath the covers, hoping for some proper sleep. One where she didn't have a book pressed against her cheek and her neck in a strange position.

It was dark when she woke up again, the moonlight pale and shining in through the window that must have appeared while she was sleeping. Cursing beneath her breath for missing the appearance of the window, Hermione got out of bed and moved to her chair, curling up in it while looking out. She wondered how long the window had been there, and more importantly – how much longer it would still be there. Even with the dark of the night she knew what she was looking at, what she would see if the moon shone a bit brighter or if the clouds hadn't blocked its pale silver light.

There would be the buds on the trees, small and green, just starting to form. The grass would be spotted with clusters of tiny snowdrops and even some early crocuses had begun to show. Over in the massive flowerbed to her right, there would be the green leaves and stems of tulips and daffodils, none of them very large yet, their buds hardly visible, yet still there with a hope of what would come – daffodils first, tulips later.

With a sigh, Hermione leaned back in her chair, trying to imagine what the view would look like in daytime, what it would look like if the moon had been brighter and the stars could be seen. As the window faded into the wall, Hermione looked at the tray on the table. It wasn't breakfast on it anymore, nor was it lunch or dinner, so Hermione assumed Minny had been there both delivering and picking up the food. The elf wouldn't have been happy to see so much of her cooking spoiled for no reason. Biting into the piece of rather stale toast left there for her, Hermione suddenly felt how hungry she was. Not that it would matter. All she had to eat now was some stale toast and a cup of tea kept warm with a warming spell.

She ate in silence, not that there was any real option to do anything else. She hadn't gone to the lengths were she was speaking to herself yet, after all. When she was finished eating, she picked up the new book and looked at it again.

She thought about refusing. About not reading it and letting Blaise know that she did not accept his behaviour when he arrived in three days, forcing him to discuss the previous book instead. But then again, there was always the risk that he would stop bringing her books altogether if she did that. And besides, what else was there for her to do? Count stones again? No, she knew she'd read the book, just as he surely did.

The book did turn out to be rather interesting. It wasn't one she'd read before, and the story was quite compelling. By the time three days had past, she'd already read the book twice, and was eagerly awaiting debating it. Judging from its contents she predicted hers and Blaise's views would differ quite a bit. She was restless already by breakfast, getting up and walking around in the small room in order to pass the time. By the time Minny brought her dinner she had already reorganised her trunk three times, and as soon as Minny showed up to take the tray away again, Hermione turned to her bed, flopping down on her stomach her eyes turned against the wall where she knew the door would appear. Carefully, she started looking through the book and her notes once more in preparation, making sure to read through her jottings of inconsistencies as well as points to prove her views. She also made an effort to go through the points she thought Blaise might raise extra carefully, and to give her notes on what passages in the book contradicted those views an additional glance. All in all she was quite pleased with the work she had done over the last three days.

It wasn't until morning she realised that she'd once more fallen asleep while waiting. That once more, Blaise had failed to show. Resentful and irritated, Hermione got up from the bed, shooting the new book on her breakfast tray a reproachful look.

For the next day and a half, Hermione refused to pick up her new book; when she finally did, she told herself it was out of boredom and nothing else. She didn't stay up to wait for Blaise when three days had passed. Instead she made sure to go to bed early, so that if – when? – he arrived he would learn his lesson and stop behaving like a child. The only problem with her plan was that Blaise never showed up. For the third time in a row he had failed. For the third time in a row a new book, lying on her breakfast tray in the morning, told her he wouldn't be coming.

The pattern lasted for weeks, and with every three days that passed, Hermione got angrier. He really had no right to treat her this way! He couldn't just leave her there with no one to talk to for weeks. Even when she first arrived had he been down to see her a couple of times a week – but now he was ignoring her completely, probably pretending she didn't exist. It wasn't right. She had told him she was sorry. She had stopped asking him questions. She had done everything he had asked of her. And still he treated her like air! She hadn't done anything wrong, and he had no right to punish her like this!

Hermione groaned the moment the thought entered her mind. Blaise was withholding his company – _and she saw it as punishment?_ What was happening to her? Would she had viewed his absence as punishment a year ago? She doubted that. So why was she now? It was just Blaise Zabini after all. He wasn't a person she had ever talked to before he captured her – because honestly, that was what he had done. He had captured her, and kept her locked in a tiny room with nothing to do but to read the books he chose for her and look out a window that randomly appeared in the wall. Would she ever have accepted this treatment before? But then life wasn't as before was it? Too many things had changed. Too many people had died, and capture or no capture she did owe Blaise her life. Probably her health too, come to think of it.

Still, she didn't like the idea of seeing his absence as punishment. So what if he didn't come down? She still had her books. She had food, a bed, a bath – far more than she had before. But at least then, before she ended up here, she had people to talk to every now and then – even if the conversations more often than not revolved around practical things, like where to sleep or what too eat. She hadn't had intellectually stimulating debates about classic literature. She hadn't had the possibility to even read. Could she even think to go back to a life without books again? She didn't think so. A life without book-discussions seemed hard enough, after all. She missed it. She couldn't deny that. She missed the heated arguments, and the intellectual traps they laid out for each other to fall into. She missed their discussions and she missed him - even if she would never admit to the latter. He was only the means. Had there been someone else to discuss books with she wouldn't spare him a second thought, she told herself. She knew it was a lie already when the notion formed in her mind.

It took more than a month before Blaise set foot in her room again. When he did, Hermione couldn't help but to be surprised. She had started to believe he wouldn't come down to see her at all again. Looking at him, there was a part of her that wanted to yell at him for not coming down sooner. Just as there was a part that wanted to ignore him the way he had her, and a part that wanted to make sure he kept coming back. Confused she said nothing – looking at him, waiting for him to lead the way. He did, picking up the latest book he'd sent her from the table and asking her what she thought about it.

She knew something was wrong the moment he started to speak. There was a note to his voice that hadn't been there before. It wasn't much. At times hardly noticeable, and while they spoke about the book there were moments when Hermione thought she was just imagining things. But then there it was again. A slight vibration on certain letters, some words spoken just a fraction of a note too high. No, there was something wrong, even if he didn't tell her what it was. She pondered asking, but thinking about his reaction to her questions about his mother, she chose not to. Instead she made sure to do her best, debating her standpoints on the book she'd read. It wasn't as easy as she'd liked it to be. Blaise had come prepared, while she had stopped preparing a couple of weeks ago – tired of building a case she never got to defend and tired of being disappointed when he didn't show. Frowning, she realised that no matter how right she was, he was building a better case than she was. With a deep breath as Blaise managed to perfectly illustrate yet another point she promised herself never to let it happen again.

Blaise stayed longer than he usually did, staying even after they finished with the book. Hermione couldn't remember him doing that before. She was still convinced there was something wrong, and when he quietly glanced out the newly formed window, she became certain of it.

It wasn't just his voice. There was something else as well. Something in the way he looked at the window. In the way he asked her casual questions about the other books she'd read without really listening to her answers. Twice he started saying something. Both times he stopped himself before he actually began to speak.

Closing her eyes, Hermione finally asked. "What's wrong?"

He turned to look at her before he answered. Letting his eyes meet hers with no hesitation as he gave her a slight smile.

"Nothing," he answered, his voice perfectly calm, just the right hint of surprise for a question that was highly unexpected and completely unwarranted. She knew he was lying. "I'd better go. I wouldn't' want to keep you from your sleep," he added casually and got up from his chair. He was out the door before she could call him on his lie. Hermione didn't expect him back three days later. He didn't arrive.

It took another two weeks before Hermione saw Blaise again. He arrived, as he always did, shortly after she'd had dinner, just as she left her seat by the table and sat down on her bed. Hermione watched him as he entered and took his usual seat in the chair that now had its natural place next to the table. Blaise was as calm and composed as always, and Hermione didn't need to look twice to know that what had been bothering him two weeks ago was bothering him now as well. She didn't ask. She knew he wouldn't answer anyway. Maybe later she told herself as she tried to ignore the small tell tale signs and focus on their discussion.

The discussion was as usual intense and in the middle of it Hermione found it easy to forget her worries. There really wasn't that much to suggest that there was something wrong at all, Blaise's composure and his way of leaning back casually in his chair not different than usual. Yet there was something there. Something she couldn't put her finger on. Somthing that made her _know_ even when there was no reason for her knowing. Maybe it was his eyelids that looked a bit heavier or the faint twitch just below his right eye – or maybe it was something in his eyes? Something hardly there but still clearly visible if you knew where to look. _When had she learnt how to see him? How many other people knew how?_ Judging from what he had previously told her, it would probably not be more than a handful. She wondered if it would even be that many. Nibbling on her lower lip as the discussion drew to an end, Hermione knew she had to ask.

"Blaise?" she asked him softly, careful not to alert his defences too much. "May I just ask you something?" Blaise looked at her warily, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read her expression. She could feel his eyes burning into her as she met his gaze – then he let his eyes dart down to her mouth where she still bit her lip. She let it go immediately – somehow knowing she'd made a mistake. For a moment she wondered what to do if he simply said no. Would she press on? Would she leave it? Would she even know how to leave it?

"Nothing personal – and I may not answer," he replied, surprising her. Hermione nodded her agreement.

"I wondered what has been going on lately?" she asked calmly. "Since you haven't had the time to come down as often as before," she quickly explained, when she saw him frown at her question. Her addition didn't seem to impress Blaise.

"You want to know why I haven't been to see you?" he asked tersely. "I'd think you'd be happy about that. You've still had your books, haven't you? So what's the problem?" he snorted.

"There's no problem. That's not what I meant," Hermione assured him with a slight smile that she hoped looked casual. It wasn't as if she was prepared to admit to him that she'd actually missed his visits, after all. "All I meant was that there must have been something to keep you, and I wondered what it was," she continued in a business-like tone of voice.

"And why would I tell you what I do with my time?" Blaise replied, not buying her act.

"Because there is something worrying you–" The words left her before she could stop herself. Hermione could have bitten off her tongue for saying them. She knew Blaise wouldn't answer her even before he rose from his chair.

"In case you'd forgotten there is a war going on outside these walls," he snapped. "I have better things to do with my time than come down her to be questioned," he finished turning towards the door.

Feeling her patience snap as clearly as if it had been a cord snapping in her hands, Hermione got up and grabbed his arm before he could leave. _"I haven't forgotten that there is a war!"_ she shouted._"I'm here because of that war, and if there is something going on then I have a right to know about it!"_

"No you don't!" Blaise replied, pulling his arm out of her grip. "You don't fight the war anymore, remember" he reminded, leaning forward so his face was just a hint too close to hers. "I would tell you if there was something you needed to know," he added.

"And I guess that is up to you to decide?" Hermione retorted, even more upset than before.

"Since you are in my care – yes it is!"

"Rubbish!" Hermione cried. "I have the right to decide for myself what is important and what is not. You ought to tell me what is going on, especially when it is obviously important like this!" she continued.

"How many times do I have to tell you that what is going on is none of your business?" Blaise snapped.

"It is up to me to decide! It–"

"No it is not!" Blaise cut her off. "And that's final!" he added, turning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

Shouting in frustration, Hermione picked up the book on the table and threw it after him, watching as it hit the stone wall replacing the door. Angrily she sank down on the floor with her back against the bed. The cover of the book was broken, she could see it from where she sat. Yet she wasn't sorry she threw it – only that she'd thrown it too late. Minny would fix it in a heartbeat after all, and Hermione really didn't feel like reading now anyway. With a deep sigh she wondered how long it would take before Blaise would come back down again.

She was utterly surprised to see him down already the following day. She was sitting in her chair when he came in. Curled up with her feet underneath her as was her habit, looking out the window to see the birds building their nests and the sun dancing in the treetops. She was so caught up in the struggle of two warblers that she nearly didn't notice him enter at all.

"Hermione?" His voice was soft – even softer than usual and she could feel it wrapping around her with deceptive comfort.

"I didn't expect you back so soon," she answered coolly, refusing to turn around or look at him – determined to show him what she thought about being treated like a child.

"I was considering not coming down here for a while," he replied simply.

The silence that spread was awkward. They weren't used to silence. Most of the time they spent together was spent arguing or debating something or another. Opening and closing her mouth several times Hermione tried to think of something to say – something that would allow her to speak without giving in. She couldn't think of anything. It was Blaise that finally gave in.

"Hermione look at me," he said – more an order than a question. Hermione thought of refusing, but then she didn't really see the point in behaving like a child that hadn't got her way. It could only do her good to comply, after all. She turned.

"I stand by my view that you do not need to know everything that goes on in this war," Blaise started, making Hermione frown. She should have known. Turning to look at him wouldn't change that. Snorting she moved to turn back around. "But," Blaise continued quickly, stopping her in mid action. "I guess I should tell you what is going on at the moment, since it is relating to you in a way," he added, flinging himself casually down in his chair, as if he hadn't just almost admitted to making a mistake. He gave her a slight smile, as if waiting for something.

"So tell me then," Hermione finally urged him when the silence became to much for her.

"Lucius Malfoy has been killed," he said, studying his hand – as if his cuticles had suddenly become the most interesting part of his anatomy.

"The resistance is growing stronger then?" Hermione asked, suddenly much more attentive.

"Well it is, but the resistance didn't kill Malfoy," Blaise said dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. "Voldemort did."

"Voldem– I don't understand," Hermione said confused.

"Malfoy failed – again – with his mission. He had been assigned to killing someone…what was his name…L-something – He was a professor one year when we were at Hogwarts, seems like ages ago, Anyway, a werewolf, used to be a spy apparently–"

"Remus Lupin," Hermione filled in, her breath catching in her throat as she remembered strong hands on her shoulders, forcing her to flee, hurried words whispered in her ear –_'There is nothing you can do for him now. Take Ginny and run – don't be here when the werewolves comes.'_

"Right. I should have remembered that," Blaise said, for a fraction of a moment looking tired before his usual calm settled in his face. "Anyway, Voldemort had wanted him dead since he spied on Grayback and his gang, and he thought he might be harbouring you –so he sent Malfoy to kill him. Malfoy failed – Voldemort killed him instead," he summed up, as he had been describing the events of a rather poorly written play instead of the events in a war.

"So Remus is still alive, then?" Hermione asked, a shimmer of hope shining into her heart.

Blaise nodded. "He is, although Voldemort desperately wants him dead. He is convinced that the reason no one has been able to find you is because Lupin or someone else in the resistance is sheltering you."

"Why does he care so much about me? I haven't been seen or heard from in more than a year and a half. Surely I can't be considered the least bit important anymore?" Hermione asked confused.

"Hermione, the fact that you haven't been heard from is making you even more of a legend. You're the one that Voldemort can't find. He is getting obsessed about it. Besides, with the Quibbler regularly writing about 'Hermione-sightings' and 'Voldemort's big failure' and things like that, he is getting more and more paranoid," Blaise explained.

"The Quibbler uses his name?" Hermione asked surprised.

"Yes they do," Blaise answered. "Which makes Voldemort even more furious. It doesn't help that more and more people are starting to follow their lead, or that Voldemort is convinced that the Quibbler is using some sort of code to communicate with the resistance. He's so irate about it that even reading the Quibbler is punishable with death now," he finished.

Hermione nodded slowly, the irony of someone like Voldemort being scared of a paper like the Quibbler not escaping her.

"I should get back to… Well I'll see you in a couple of days," Blaise said. Hermione raised her head and looked at him before she nodded again.

"Blaise," she called out just as he was exiting the door. She watched as he turned around. Taking a deep breath she gathered her courage before she spoke again. "You said Voldemort is getting paranoid. If that is true – hiding me is dangerous. I mean more dangerous than before. I'll understand if you'd rather want me to hide someplace else. And I won't back out of our deal," she said quietly.

"No, Hermione. I want you to stay," he said with emphasis. "I can't guarantee your safety anywhere else, after all," he added casually, giving her a quick smile. Not knowing quite what to say, Hermione simply returned his smile while watching him leave.

The feeling of someone shaking her roughly awoke her early the next morning. Squinting her eyes against the light of the window already there, Hermione looked in surprise at Minny standing in front of her. So far Minny had never woken her up.

"Miss Hermione must be up," the house-elf said eagerly, prodding her once more. "Important things on table," she said pointing to the table. "Mister Blaise gave Minny strict orders," she added apologetically when Hermione stifled a yawn.

"It's alright, Minny," Hermione answered, giving the house-elf a pat on the shoulder as she stood up. She already felt wide awake. With trembling hands she reached out and grabbed the paper lying on the table. She tried to remember how long it's been since she'd read any paper, but couldn't remember. It had been longer still since she'd been able to read the Quibbler – the issues harder and harder to come by as it was forbidden. It couldn't be easier now, when holding a copy mean a death sentence if the wrong person saw it. She wondered how it came to be that Blaise had got a hold of it.

"Note too," Hermione heard Minny say behind her, and, quite right, when glancing down on the table there was a small folded note. Picking it up, Hermione quickly read through Blaise's scribbled handwriting, somehow more sloppy and scratchy than she had imagined it to be.

_The paper is only there for two hours, then it will burst into flames – don't hold it when it does. Make what you will of any information you find, but keep it to yourself. I have no interest in knowing._

Sinking down on the chair next to her, Hermione unfolded the paper. She didn't need any explanation to know what Blaise was talking about. She knew there was a code in the paper – just as surely as she knew that Voldemort apparently hadn't figured it out yet. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noticed that Minny had Disapparated, yet she couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. Her movements were hurried when she turned to the centrefold. She almost gave a cry of joy when she saw the runes at the bottom of the page. Turning the paper upside-down while thanking her lucky star they hadn't changed it, she grabbed her quill and proceeded quickly to deciphering the code. A moment later she was satisfied and turned the paper back around and started reading.

She read through all the stories about silly creatures that didn't exist as well as the – actually rather amusing – pages of 'Hermione sightings'. The stories were mostly absurd and far-fetched, but they were stories of courage and resistance and probably brought comfort those that hoped for an ending to the war but wasn't able to read between the lines. To Hermione, however, the stories didn't bring comfort. With every page she read she turned paler. She knew the information in the paper was accurate – their sources of information were many, and their information always double-checked. Still the image that was painted only managed to bring fear to her.

Things were far worse than Blaise had let on. Malfoy was far from the only Death Eater killed by Voldemort in the last few months. Failure was only one reason – Voldemort's growing suspicion of spies and defectors the other. A culture of spying on each other had evolved. Informants could be found among friends, relatives, even children were used against their parents. Everyone – a Death Eater or not – was watched carefully. Any behaviour outside the norm registered and reported. Hermione could only begin to guess how many unusual activities she caused. Hermione closed her eyes, and put the paper on the floor, staring at it until it burst into flames. She threw the note on the flames and watched as it burned as well.

Staring at the wall Hermione let the information sink in. Blaise was taking a far greater risk than he had let on. A far greater risk than keeping her safe warranted. This couldn't be solely about personal gain – it was too risky, too dangerous. This took more. This took conviction, persuasion – courage. And surely if someone so Slytherin as Blaise showed that he had courage, it couldn't really be dead, could it? Maybe courage was still alive, after all.


	6. Love

**Love**

A war is never safe, but some dangers are greater than others. What Blaise had done – and continued to do – certainly put him in great danger. During the following days Hermione spent most of her time wondering why he hadn't taken her up on her offer. She knew he wanted to keep her safe – yet it fitted badly with his wish to keep himself safe.

Nevertheless the questions in her mind were nothing compared to the worry she felt. Knowing the danger made her confinement seem even worse than it had before, and a part of her couldn't help but to wonder if Blaise had been right not to tell her everything that was going on. Not that she would ever admit having any such thoughts to him.

As the days passed, Hermione tried to stay busy – reading or writing. Yet somehow she didn't seem to have the concentration for prolonged reading and the writing started to feel pointless, not to mention dangerous. Sometimes she was even scared of her books, wondering what harm they might cause. After all, the very fact that they could help Blaise avoid Azkaban or death if the resistance won the war, also meant that they could – would – cause his death if they ever reached Voldemort. Then again, if Voldemort found the books, he would have already found her, and if he'd found her, Blaise would already be dead or captured.

She shuddered. Funny, really, how the thought of Blaise killed or hurt could make her shudder like that.

Keeping his promise, Blaise came down again only a few days after he had sent her the Quibbler. Hermione still thought he looked tenser than he had a few months ago, but giving the circumstances he really looked far more at ease than could be expected. Still Hermione couldn't help but to wonder just how much the stress was affecting him.

Trying to fight the urge to ask him how he was, Hermione looked out the window that had appeared a few moments ago. Two magpies had taken to nesting in one of the trees, and she could see them flying into it in intervals trying to feed their hungry nestlings. Behind her, Hermione could hear Blaise close the door behind him and come to sit down in his chair.

"Why didn't you take me up on my offer the other day? Hermione asked, even before he'd had time to sit down properly. He didn't answer immediately, but took his time getting comfortable. For a moment Hermione wondered if he wasn't actually surprised that she'd asked.

"I told you why," he finally answered. There was a hint of suspicion in his voice, and when she turned her head to look at him she could see that his eyes were just a tad narrower than usual.

"I know what you told me," Hermione said. "But judging from what is going–"

"I told you in my note not to speak of what you read!" Blaise interrupted her. "Or was I in any way unclear on that point?" he asked, clearly annoyed.

"No, no you weren't, but–" Hermione tried again. She knew she was pushing her luck, but she wanted to find out if she had been right.

"No buts. There is a reason why I don't want to know, Hermione. I wouldn't have given you that instruction otherwise," Blaise said, an urgent tone to his voice that Hermione hadn't heard before.

"Why? Why don't you want to know?" Hermione asked softly, too curious to refrain from asking.

"Because I might be tempted to reveal information you give me!" Blaise said tersely. "For my own gain or for our safety – pick the option that appeals most to you," he added, shifting his gaze from her to the park outside, as if he didn't want to look at her when admitting that.

There was something else. Something in his voice that made Hermione sure that he cared more than he was willing to let on. She remembered their first real meeting. He had been cold, distant and logical – knowing far more than he should. He had made knowing a lifestyle: knowing about Voldemort, about the resistance, about the other Death Eaters. He spied on his allies, on his enemies, making sure to know everything he could, gaining as much knowledge as possible. Yet now he suddenly didn't want to know, because he didn't want to tell. Smiling softly, Hermione followed his gaze outside the confinement of the small room.

"I don't think you would tell," she said softly. She could feel his gaze when he turned his head to look at her, but she didn't move.

"I'm Slytherin, Hermione. Don't tempt me," he said calmly, waiting for her to turn to meet his eyes.

"A Slytherin would have taken me up on my offer," Hermione said, equally calm.

"Not necessarily. Not when he thinks it's the best thing for his own safety," Blaise answered, his voice confident. He looked at her for a while before continuing. "Don't make me out to be some Gryffindor-hero. I'm not one, nor would I see it as a compliment," he added.

Hermione smiled, the image of Blaise as a hero a rather amusing one. "How about a Slytherin-hero then?" she asked, still amused.

With a quirk of his eyebrow, Blaise watched her for a moment. Then he laughed. It wasn't a long laugh, or a laugh like the ones that used to be heard in the Burrow, it wasn't a soft warm giggling laugh like Ginny's, or a barking laugh like Ron had, when he clutched his sides and couldn't breathe. But it was a laugh, nonetheless. A nice one, Hermione decided – deep and warm, like his voice. Nothing like the cynical snorts she'd heard from him in the past. It seemed a pity that she hadn't heard it before.

"I have to say that's the first time I've ever heard anyone use those two words in the same sentence," Blaise said. "I didn't know you to be a joker," he added with a smirk.

"Who said I was joking," Hermione replied, an amused tone to her voice that she was unable to mask.

Still Blaise didn't laugh this time. Instead he frowned a bit. "Hermione, I'm just doing what I think is safest for us both," he said calmly. "Moving you now would pose a risk. One I'm not willing to take. At least not at the moment," he added.

"And is letting me have a window by using traceable magic doing what you think is safest, too?" Hermione replied tossing a glance at the world outside. The magpies seemed to have calmed down for the moment, probably awaiting the night as the sun slowly began turning orange. For once Blaise didn't reply.

"You were going to bring it up, weren't you?" Hermione asked. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," she added, not turning her head to look at him.

"I've thought about it," Blaise admitted quietly. "I had no plans… I hadn't decided to take it up with you just yet," he finished.

Hermione nodded, glancing down on her hands. "Why not?" she asked, fighting the lump in her throat and the screaming voice in her head that told her to be quiet. "It poses a risk, doesn't it?"

"It does," Blaise acknowledged.

Hermione waited for him to go on. He didn't and so she looked up and saw him staring through the window. The voice inside her head was growing louder, fighting what she knew she had to do, fighting the reasonable with want and need. Closing her eyes Hermione pushed it away.

"I lived without the window for over a year. I can do it again," she said, ignoring the stabbing pain in her gut. "Our safety should come first, it's only logical," she continued, opening her eyes again.

In the corner of her eye she could see Blaise nod. "It is," he confirmed simply.

She waited for him to go on, to say something, but he didn't. Instead he sat quietly next to her watching as the sun began to set. Then he rose.

"I'll leave you to enjoy…" he didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to; they both knew how it ended. She heard him move behind her, heard the door open and shut. She imagined that she'd seen a hint of gratitude on his face before, but she wasn't sure. Pushing the thought of Blaise out of her mind, Hermione watched as the world outside bathed in the red light of the sunset. She wondered how long it would be before she would see a sunset again. Would it be months? Years? Would she ever see the sunset again, or would the barren stone walls of the room be the last thing she laid her eyes on?

Closing her eyes as the window faded and disappeared Hermione pushed those thoughts too, to the back of her mind. It wouldn't do to dwell on the things that she couldn't control. At least it was safer this way.

Time seemed to slow down after the window was gone. It didn't help that Blaise's visits became more and more scarce or that her worry only seemed to multiply now when she didn't have her window to distract her. She'd known she'd miss it, yet she hadn't anticipated missing it as much as she did.

She tried to will herself to read or write, and most of the times it worked. But then there were the times when she found herself staring at the wall, wishing it would Transfigure. Sometimes she'd look where the window had been, sometimes on the part of the wall where the door still appeared from time to time – if less frequent than it had – and sometimes she didn't know where to look. Those were the times when she fell into her old habit of counting the stones in the wall.

Still, the books _did _bring her comfort. Not in the way they had before – although escaping to a world far away in time and space still offered its very own form of relief – but in a new way, a logical way. The logical conclusion that told her that as long as the books kept arriving every three days, Blaise had to be fine. Besides, she reasoned, if Blaise had been captured, then surely she would have been too. As long as she was alright, Blaise had to be as well.

Routine was another comfort, she noticed. Almost every day was the same, making it easier to keep track when the window no longer told her about the passing of time. She would rise, bathe, eat and read. At the end of the day she'd mark another passed day in her book, making sure she'd not lose track of time once more. Every three days there was a new book. Every now and then her routine would be broken by Blaise's visits, the interruptions welcome breaks in the monotony. If her marks were correct then autumn would be upon them in less than a month. It filled her with melancholy that once more she would miss her favourite season. Once more would she miss the leaves turning red, the birds' cries as they flew south, the squirrels' frantic search for food to sustain them through winter. It bothered her far less that she'd missed summer, although she couldn't help but wonder how the garden outside her window looked in full bloom. She guessed it was beautiful this time of year.

But it didn't help her to linger to what she couldn't have. So Hermione tried to linger on the things that she might have – if things only went the way they were supposed to. Then there would be plenty of summers and autumns to see. Better ones than this. Summers and autumns where you didn't need to worry about war and death, but where your greatest worries would be not getting burnt by the sun or having the time to rake the leaves off the lawn in time for winter.

Hope – lodged in a dream of a future. And it was when she had finally found it, when she had found her peace that what she feared most happened. Three days after the last book, a fortnight after Blaise's last visit, she woke up to realise that the table, where a new book was supposed to await her, was empty.

Attempting desperately to fight the fear inside her, Hermione tried to reason with herself. She had woken up too early and Minny had not been down yet. Minny was probably just running late. Blaise had kept the book himself to bring to her later. But her logic was flawed and no matter how much she tried to fight that knowledge it was still there. She never woke up early unless she had her period – and this was not that time of the month. Minny was too loyal to ever allow herself to be late. Blaise hadn't brought her a book himself for months, he wouldn't now either.

Taking deep breaths and biting her lip, Hermione tried to calm down. She did what she always did – tried to find the comfort her routine would bring her. Still by midday she was frantic. Pacing back and forth in the room she tried to think, to come up with a solution. And yet it wasn't until her stomach rumbled that another fact dawned on her. Not only had the book not been on the table as it was supposed to be, but there hadn't been any breakfast either. As her stomach rumbled again, Hermione felt herself lose control over her fear. Pure white panic began to spread as she sank to the floor of the room, her back against the side of the bed.

The lack of food could only mean one thing. There could only be one explanation – house elves didn't fail to do their duties. Minny had not been allowed to come down to her today. If Minny had been stopped from coming down, then surely Blaise had been found out. With him found out, it was only a matter of time before they found her. If they even looked. It would be so easy for them just to leave her here to die – to starve. Without her wand she didn't have a chance to get out. Without her wand she didn't have a chance to defend herself. All she could do now was sit and wait – for them or starvation – whichever came first.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she sat there. Judging from the growling in her stomach, it ought to be close to dinner time. But then again, she couldn't be sure that it wasn't just the fear that made her stomach churn. Her head jerked up when she in the corner of her eye saw the door materialise in the wall. Swallowing hard and ignoring the way her hands wouldn't stop shaking, Hermione stood up – determined to face who ever was on the other side with her head held high. She might not be able to defend herself, but she wouldn't let them see her weak.

Her knees almost buckled beneath her when she saw Blaise's familiar frame come through the door. Fighting the tears and the confusion that threatened to overwhelm her, Hermione wondered what type of cruel joke this was. Couldn't they settle for killing her? Did they have to give her a glimmer of hope first?

"Hermione!" he said sharply, as if repeating himself. "Hermione, are you alright?" he asked, somewhat softer when she looked at him.

"I…" Hermione started, her voice failing her when she realised that her fears had been in vain – too many thoughts and feelings fighting within her at once for her to concentrate. "_What the hell is going on!"_she then snapped, regaining her voice as anger took over. Anger at herself for drawing the wrong conclusions and worrying too much. Anger at him for letting her worry. Anger at Voldemort for bringing a war upon them. "_I haven't received any food all day and there wasn't a book like there was supposed to be at my table this morning! Is this your way of keeping me on my toes? You know for something like that to work, I would actually need my wand back. I'm a sitting duck in here if something happens, I–" _

"Hermione, calm down!" Blaise interrupted. "No need to shout. Of course I didn't plan things this way, or want them this way. Why do you think I'm down here? I came to explain," he said sharply.

Hermione stared at him, then she turned her back,pretending to fiddle with her chair before she sat down. She hated the way her face had turned pink. It wasn't as if her conclusions had been unreasonable after all – so why should she feel embarrassed about them being wrong? Taking a deep breath, Hermione tried to shrug the feeling and looked up to face him again.

"I'm sorry if my reaction seemed a bit rash," she started calmly, wishing he didn't look so ruddy amused when he looked at her face. It only made her flush more. "I thought…" She interrupted herself. Not knowing really what to say. _I thought you were dead and that I would die too_ seemed so childish and immature.

"I'm listening," Blaise said with a smirk. "What did you think?"

"Well, what do you _think_ I thought?" Hermione snapped again, too annoyed at his supercilious smirk to stop herself. "With no food and without seeing Minny all day? I thought you'd been found out, of course. That you were captured or dead." She stopped herself from going on, refusing to share the horrible thoughts that had been running through her mind during the past few hours with him.

"Careful, Hermione, someone hearing you say that might just think you care," Blaise said jokingly as he casually sat down in the chair. His face was calm and his lips curved in a way that only enhanced his high cheekbones and strong features. Hermione had never been so angry with him as she was now.

"Of course I care!" she retorted. "My life, my survival, is completely and utterly dependent on you. If you die – I die! And that is not even mentioning that you are the only person I know I can trust!"

"You trust me?" Blaise asked surprised. "I thought you said you didn't trust anyone," he added, the smirk wiped completely off his face.

"I didn't, then," Hermione admitted quietly, unable to stay angry when Blaise wasn't smirking anymore. "I have come to trust you, over time," she continued. "Are you telling me I shouldn't?" she added.

Blaise didn't answer at once, but seemed to ponder her question before he shook his head. "You can trust me," he said, the words odd and foreign coming out of his mouth.

"So what was going on today?" Hermoine asked calmly after they'd sat quietly for a while.

"Guests. The wrong kind of guests," Blaise answered. "Among others, Draco was here, with his house-elf. I couldn't risk sending down Minny, not when she could have been detected," he finished.

"I see. I guess I shouldn't have come to such hasty conclusions," Hermione said simply. "But I did mean what I said about my wand, Blaise. I mean surely you can trust me with it by now. I need a way to get out of here, if something were to happen to you," she continued with emphasis.

"Do you seriously think that I haven't thought of that?" Blaise asked. "I've made arrangements. If something happens to me, you'll know, you'll have a proper chance of escape. I've made sure of it," he finished.

Hermione looked at him, surprised at his confession. She knew that, logically, the risks Blaise took to keep her safe demanded more than simple wish of self preservation. Yet not once had Hermione thought that his concern for the outcome of the war ran so deep.

She smiled. "Careful, someone might think you care," she said softly.

Blaise snorted in response. "Don't flatter yourself," he muttered, almost making Hermione laugh.

"I wasn't talking about _me_, silly," she giggled. She stopped when Blaise caught her eye. Something about the intense way he looked at her made her swallow hard and avert her eyes. A blush crept up her cheeks as an uncomfortable silence spread between them – the tension as tangible as any object ever could be.

Blaise seemed to be as relieved as she was when Minny interrupted them by finally bringing her food, apologising over and over again about not being able to bring the meal sooner. In the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Blaise slip out the door while she was assuring the house-elf that she wasn't in any way upset with her for following necessary orders.

That night Hermione's dreams were filled with images of death and war. She saw Ron lying lifeless on the ground, but when she called his name and kneeled at his side he turned into Blaise, just as lifeless and his body covered with blood. When she woke she was panting, her body drenched in sweat. She was fairly sure it was the middle of the night, though of course there was no certain way of knowing, just a feeling in her gut. Stumbling in the dark, she made her way out into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water to cool down – trying to forget her dream, trying to restore her calm. Not until she realised her loss of serenity had nothing to do with her dream, did she give up her attempts and stumble back to bed again.

The nightmare didn't return again, but neither did the relative sense of calm and peace that she had felt before. Blaise seemed to make an effort to come down to see her more often now than before – for practical reasons, he said – yet she wondered if his reasons were what he said they were. He seemed different somehow, more tense. Not the same tense as before – although the traces of the pressure he must be feeling were still there – but a new type of tense, as if he was fighting something within himself. Hermione wanted to ask, but for some reason she couldn't understand, she hesitated. Maybe it was because it was unlikely that he would tell her even if she did. Or maybe it was because she needed to understand what it was that was nagging within herself before she could begin to worry about Blaise.

Submerging herself in the books they discussed, Hermione tried to fight the feeling in her gut. The feeling that told her that the answer to what was nagging her laid in what was bothering Blaise. It made no logical sense. _How could it?_ And yet the feeling wouldn't go away, it wouldn't be pushed to the side forever. She knew she'd ask – eventually, when her inquisitive nature couldn't resist anymore, or when the feeling in her gut got the better of her brain.

Blaise had been in her room longer than usual the night Hermione finally let her instincts win. They had talked for hours, not only about the book they had read, but about the war, about how surprise 'visits' were now an everyday affair. How Draco had taken it upon himself to pay those visits to various 'friends' and allies – no doubt in an attempt of gaining Voldemort's trust after his father's failure and death. Blaise had had the doubtful pleasure of his visits twice by now, and he wasn't at all pleased. It was when they were finally finished and Blaise started to rise that Hermione found herself reaching out to touch his arm, her fingers gently grazing the light blue fabric of his robes, stopping him from leaving.

All she wanted to do was ask him a question. Ask him what else was bothering him. What it was that made him tense and distant even in the most heated debate, but somehow the words got stuck in her throat when she saw the almost painfully intense fire in his eyes as he turned his head to look at her – binding her with his gaze. Making her feel as if he was looking straight into her soul, as if he could read her mind and know her feelings. For a moment she wondered if he wasn't using Legilimancy, but Harry had told her what that felt like, and this wasn't it. There were no images of past memories forced to the surface, no invasion – only the inability to move, to think, to act.

Something stirred inside her, a memory of something distant, of something long forgotten. She knew this feeling. She'd felt it before, in another time, in another life – when there was still light in the world. Before the war had clouded everything in darkness and despair. The flutter in her stomach, the furious beating of her heart, the heat spreading to the depth of her being.

And then Blaise moved and the connection was gone. He jerked back as if her touch burnt him, and strangely enough she could feel the heat in her fingers – as if they still rested on his arm. Rising and turning away, Blaise rushed out of the room, the door vanishing behind him, leaving her with the confusion and recollection of something she'd felt before but couldn't quite put her finger on. Because this was different. This was new. And yet it wasn't new, or different, it was the same. But the same as what?

She shuddered when realisation hit. _No, that wasn't right! This wasn't the same. It couldn't be, shouldn't be – it wasn't allowed to be! She loved Ron,_ only Ron. _She couldn't love Blaise. It wasn't who she was. She was Hermoine Granger – in love with Ron Weasley. That was who she was. Just as he had been Ron Weasley – in love with Hermione Granger. It didn't matter that he was dead. That was who she had been since she was a teenager, and she didn't know how to be something else, how to be someone else. And yet she already was. Because life had moved on even when she fought it._

Hermione found it hard to live with the realisation of her feelings. She couldn't deny them, even if that was exactly what she tried to do. Blaise's apparent decision to stay absent helped her dojust that. For every day he didn't show up, Hermione pushed her feelings a little bit further to the back of her mind, until she could finally convince herself that it had just been her imagination, that what she had felt had nothing to do with Blaise. That it was just a general longing to be touched, to be loved again.

The thought was comforting, and alluring, and it worked. It restored her calm and balance almost to what it had been before. So hard did Hermione believe this to be true that she would have happily have sworn to it under the influence of Veritaserum. That was until Blaise stepped back into the room and her presence, making her heart leap and her breath hitch in her throat.

Thankfully, Blaise seemed as uncomfortable as she felt, and Hermione got the distinct feeling that he was purposely avoiding meeting her gaze. He seemed hurried, and didn't bother to sit down as usual. Not that Hermione minded that. The faster Blaise left, the faster she could go back to convincing herself that what she was feeling had nothing to do with him.

"How are things going?" Hermione asked, curious to know what he wanted, but also wanting to get to the essence of his visit. Something told her this visit had nothing to do with books.

"I've started making arrangements for you to be moved," Blaise said, not answering her question. Hermione stared at him, not fully comprehending what he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, even if her mind told her that it was fairly obvious what he meant. The only problem was that she didn't want to be moved, she wanted to stay – and suddenly she couldn't pretend anymore. "You said I was safe here," she added, wincing at how that made her sound.

"You're not safe here _anymore_," Blaise said swiftly. No doubt annoyed with her, Hermione thought as she turned towards the table, busying her hands with the pages of the book that was lying open there. "I just received information that Draco will be coming to 'visit' – again. That makes three times in as many months – he must suspect something."

"But you've dealt with Draco's suspicion before," Hermione protested.

"This is different," Blaise said sharply. "He won't be alone this time. He'll have Pansy with him to make it seem more like a social visit. Pansy is harder to fool than Draco," he added.

"But surely _you_ can charm her?" Hermione insisted, firmly pushing the feeling of panic that threatened to creep up on her away.

"Even if I could – they're bringing their house-elf with them. That means Minny will be under supervision as well–"

"Is that the only thing that bothers you?" Hermione said as light-hearted and casual as she could master. "I can go without food for a day. I've done it before," she added.

"They're not staying for a day. They're staying for an extended weekend. You can't go without food for four days, Hermione," Blaise said. "Besides, I thought you wanted to leave this place?" he added.

"I do," Hermione assured him. "I just… Well you said it wouldn't be safe to leave. You said that going somewhere else would be more dangerous than staying here," she tried. "It's seems illogical to take the risk, that's all," Hermione concluded, hoping it didn't sound as big of a lie as she thought it did.

"Obviously, I don't think staying here is the safe option anymore," Blaise answered her quietly.

There was something in his voice that made her turn around to face him, to look at him. The moment she had, she knew why she had avoided doing it in the first place. _How could he suck her in so easily? How could a simple look be that powerful?_

She knew he felt it too – the heat that gathered in the pit of the stomach, the tingles that ran along the spine. It wasn't fair, or right – but that didn't make it less real.

"I'll come back when I know more," Blaise blurted, before he turned on his heal and stalked out of the room.

During the following days Hermione went from despair to relief and back to despair. While looking forward to seeing something other than grey walls lit only by candles, she dreaded going back to a life on the run. She hated not knowing what was coming, not being able to plan for herself. But she didn't have any choice. She was forced to trust that Blaise would do what was best for her.

She'd already packed and organised her things – the ones she thought she'd be able to take in one pile, the rest in another. She'd prioritised her book, a toothbrush and some changes in clothing, placing almost everything else in the optional pile. She'd lived with little before, she could do it again. All she could do now was wait. And so she waited. Eating and sleeping and reading, she waited. Tonight, she'd waited for three whole days since she finished packing. She hated waiting almost as much as she hated not knowing. Getting ready for bed, she looked over her packing one more time as she folded the robes she'd worn and put them into the redundancy pile.

Hermione spun around when she heard the door appear and open behind her. She hadn't expected Blaise to come down here tonight – especially not since it was rather late and she was already dressed in her nightgown. Raising her arms to cover what now felt like a ridiculously thin piece of fabric, Hermione felt the, all too familiar, butterflies in her stomach.

"Bad time?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he glanced at her, a gleam in his eye that she'd seen too many time in Ron.

"I…I wasn't expecting you," Hermione stuttered, shifting on her feet as she shuddered from something completely different than cold.

"Apparently not," he answered, stepping inside. He opened his mouth, as to say something more, but the words never left his mouth and for a second, Hermione thought he would turn on the spot and leave.

"You have news? Hermoine asked, desperate to break the silence between them.

Blaise nodded. "The arrangements are done," he said hoarsely. "You'll leave…"

He didn't finish the sentence, something dark clouding his eyes when he said the words. She understood and nodded, and she tried to smile, but failed. And instead she let her hands fall to her sides as she hesitantly took a step forward towards him. She gasped when she felt his arms sneak around her and his lips claiming hers. His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her so tight it almost hurt. Feeling her heart race, Hermione responded to the kiss, moving her arms around him, holding on to him as desperately as he was holding on to her.

She felt the familiar tingling in her stomach as he pushed her back and down on the small bed, the world reduced to touches and caresses that were frantic and desperate instead of soft and gentle. This wasn't fair. This wasn't what Hermione had dreamed of. And yet it was everything she'd dreamed of. It was perfection and imperfection at the same time – so right and yet so unfair – because this wasn't real._This_would never stay real. _This _never could.

And so she refused to close her eyes, refused to let him out of her sight. She wanted to see, to hear, to feel. Because she knew that Blaise would never say the words her heart most desired to hear – not because they weren't true but because he never could. And she knew that she never would say the words her heart most needed her to say – not because she didn't want to, but because he wouldn't be able to hear them. So instead she showed him what she couldn't tell him, with every movement, with every touch, so that they wouldn't forget. So that he wouldn't forget. Because the world wasn't theirs, only tonight was. And so it was all about making the most of it. About taking what would never be given.

As Hermione felt Blaise lay close beside her, his dark chest moving envenly with his every breath as he drifted off to sleep, she didn't need him to say the words anymore - just as she didn't need to say them anymore. She knew that love wasn't dead. It was there, and it was real, and right now was all that mattered.


	7. Hope

**Hope**

There are times when even small beds feel too big, and it is hard when the one thing you want is the one thing you cannot have, the one thing you cannot admit to wanting to have, the one thing you're not allowed to want.

Hermione hadn't expected Blaise to be there when she woke up the morning after, and yet she had been disappointed not to find him there. Getting up, she had immediately noticed the items next to the breakfast tray – the small piece of rope, the hourglass already turned, the letter and the wand – the same length, wood and core as the one he'd taken from her.

She had read the note before even touching breakfast. It had been short and to the point, just what she would have expected from him. It had told her what she already suspected – that the piece of rope was a Portkey, that the hourglass marked when it was set to activate.

It had been months since that day, and still she remembered the letter as vividly as if she'd read it a few hours ago – the simple tone, the utter lack of wordiness, the ending, especially the ending. Every last word of his plea was etched into her memory: '_I only ask of you, not to tell anyone about my role in your escape yet_. _It's too dangerous while Voldemort is still alive. Wait for his death or for me to signal to you – whichever comes first. Until then say nothing. Promise me that. Blaise.'_

She wished he had been around for her to actually give him her word. Nevertheless, she had given it, to herself if not him. She wasn't a fool – she understood the need for secrecy and she would never do anything that could put him in danger. Grabbing the wand, her packing and the Portkey, she had waited for the sand in the hourglass to reach its target. She'd hardly touched her breakfast all morning and she had felt relieved when she had finally felt the familiar tug of the Portkey activating, removing her from the room that had been her home for the past two years.

Blaise had been as thorough in making these arrangements as he had in everything else, making sure she was safe, that no one would be able to follow her or find her. For that she was utterly grateful, but it didn't stop her from wanting him to be there with her.

The Portkey had taken her to a small cottage – nothing more than a table and another Portkey inside. That one had taken her to another one. For three days, she'd moved from Portkey to Portkey – short visits first to empty cottages and flats, then to different members of the resistance. No one had known where she'd come from or where she would go, but all of them had been willing to help. Blaise had done his homework. He'd known where it was safe to send her.

She'd known she'd reached her final destination when she saw their faces, her knees buckling beneath her from completely different reasons than a clumsy Portkey landing. Molly and Ginny had rushed over to her the moment she stumbled to the floor, crying out in happiness and relief that she was alright. Feeling their arms around her, smelling the familiar flowery scent that belonged to Ginny, and the scent of freshly baked bread that always accompanied Molly, Hermione had allowed herself to let go, to cry at the injustice of the world in their arms – knowing that Blaise must have worked hard to give her the only thing that would actually relieve the pain of not having him with her anymore.

She had been surprised to see that Fleur was there, too, and more so when she realised that not only was she there, but she was living with Molly and Ginny as well.

"This is Fleur's house," Molly had explained once Hermione was sitting comfortably on the sofa in the living room, a blanket wrapped around her legs and a cup of hot tea in her hands. "Fleur's parents gave it to her when she got married," she'd said, going on to explain that the house was quite safe, protected by more spells than even 12 Grimmauld Place had been, not to mentioned situated in France. Hermione had nodded, quite sure Fleur's parents had never intended their gift to be used as a hideaway in a war no one really thought they'd win but fought anyway because they couldn't give up.

She had wondered where Bill was, but not asked, having her suspicions about why he wasn't mentioned. Later that night Ginny had proved her right, explaining to her that Bill got killed almost a year and a half ago and that Fleur had invited Molly and Ginny to move in with her after a few months.

"It wasn't such a big step to take. We were nearly living with her already," Ginny had said. "She didn't take Bill's death too well. Lost the baby she was carrying. She was restricted to her bed for weeks, would hardly talk to anyone. We were forced to take care of her. Staying felt natural, and when they burnt down The Burrow, there was really no reason for us to stay in Britain anymore."

"They burnt down The Burrow?" Hermione had asked, shocked at how deeply those words affected her.

Ginny had nodded. "A year ago. That's when we came here," she'd said. "It's not like home, but at least it's safe – and it's an excellent place to plan our next moves."

Hermione had smiled faintly, not really knowing what to do with the information. She'd missed so much – both being on the run and being in hiding in Blaise's dungeon. How could she not have known that Bill was dead? That The Burrow was burnt down? A thought had struck her then – and looking at Ginny she hadn't been able to refrain from asking.

"Your father – and Percy – are they, too…?"

The question had hung in the air as Ginny had averted her eyes and nodded slightly, saying her goodnights and leaving the room shortly after. Hermione hadn't pressed the matter, not with Ginny nor with anyone else. The pain was too obvious for them all – and for Molly especially. In just a few years she'd lost not only her husband but all of her sons. Hermione had been – and was still – sure that there was nothing she could possibly say or do to make that pain any smaller. Just as there was nothing anyone could say or do to make her miss Blaise any less. She kept her promise, not talking even when Ginny or Molly asked – they were clearly disappointed, but accepted her decision not to talk. Hermione didn't have to ask to know they took her silence to mean something other than it did, but she didn't care. At least she hadn't cared then.

It had taken a while for her to get used to her new environment. Too long had she lived cooped up in a single room to comfortably move in an entire house and village without feeling as if she was doing something she wasn't supposed to. The first time she'd gone outside she had trembled and hesitated to even leave the garden, but Ginny had assured her that the charms she'd used had worked and that not even her parents would be able to recognise her.

"It's alright, Hermione," she'd said. "The village is a Muggle one – no one has even heard of Voldemort there. And they already think Mum is just another Muggle woman living here with her two daughters. We'll tell them you're a cousin moving in," she'd finished. Hermione had nodded and gone with her, learning with every trip to relax a bit more and enjoy the freedom that she could suddenly afford herself.

Still, in spite of everything, Hermione had a hard time adjusting. It wasn't that she didn't like the house, or being able to walk outside or being with Molly and Ginny – she _did_, but things still didn't feel right. She was constantly tired, probably from the complete lack of sunlight she'd been forced to endure during the last couple of years, and she felt the burden to smile when she couldn't feel any reasons to. Her appetite came and went as it pleased, and even being with Molly and Ginny wasn't the same as it was supposed to be. They weren't who they were supposed to be. They had changed, as everyone had.

She missed them, the way they had been. She missed Molly's heart-warming smiles when she served them breakfast, or the way she would nag and yell only to break up into a smile towards someone else a moment later. Molly now was quieter, calmer, sadder. Hermione could hardly blame her for that. She'd lost nearly everything that mattered. But she missed the old Molly.

She missed the old Ginny too. She missed the Ginny she'd known to be her best female friend. She missed the pranks and the cockiness and the easy smiles. She was harder now, colder somehow. It wasn't something as easy to note as the lack of Molly's smiles, but there was a bitter tone to her voice that hadn't been there before. A harshness that just wasn't Ginny. Hermione guessed she had that as well. The tone that said – I've lost everything I wanted and I'm pissed off about it, now leave me alone, I don't trust you! Would anyone leave this war without a hint of it?

It was the rows that were the worst, however. Hermione had never heard Molly and Ginny row like that. Molly had always been good at shouting at her sons, but things had been different with Ginny. They argued – of course they did. They were both too hot-headed not to – but it wasn't like this. It wasn't Molly shouting at her daughter that she was not allowed to leave the house to fight or Ginny shouting at her mother that she was old enough to make those decisions herself and then slamming the door behind her as she went looking for battles to fight. It wasn't Molly sinking down in her chair after she was gone, crying because she couldn't protect her last child from the war, because she was terrified of losing her too. The first time Hermione went with Ginny – eager to finally make a difference. The second time she stayed with Molly, holding her as she cried. Molly seemed grateful, but also worried. Worried that Hermione wasn't herself, that she wasn't feeling well. Even when assuring Molly that she was fine, Hermione knew she wasn't.

Two months had passed before she'd figured out what was wrong with her. The fatigue that just wouldn't leave her no matter how much time she spent in the garden soaking up the winter sun, staying out until Molly demanded that she'd head inside so that she didn't freeze herself. The shifting appetite, the light headiness from time to time, the sudden waves of nausea that could come any time of the day but were most prominent in the mornings.

She should have been more careful. They both should have been. This was hardly the time or place for a baby. Nevertheless, she was pregnant, and that was that – no need to beat herself up about being irresponsible. It wouldn't do anyone any good, and it wouldn't change things. Besides, as much as she tried to look at matters from a logical point of view, the feeling of a life growing inside her had brought hope to her heart – and hope she'd realised was what she needed most right now.

Molly had been the first one to figure it out, coming into her room one evening and plainly asking her if she was pregnant. Hermione hadn't been surprised – Molly had had seven children after all. She knew the signs when presented with them. Hermione hadn't even tried to deny it, but she had refused to tell Molly that Blaise was the father. How could she tell her that without telling her everything? She couldn't. And as much as she ached to tell, she'd given her word. So she'd shaken her head and said she didn't want to talk about it. The words had become her mantra after that – repeated again and again to questions and curious glances.

"I don't want to talk about it!" meaning: "I can't tell you because I promised I wouldn't," understood: "I don't want to talk about it because I was raped and the memory hurts me too much."

She could see it in Molly's tears when the woman she'd grown to love as a mother threw her arms around her and rocked her gently, as if her pregnancy was something to be sad about. She could see it in the way that Remus – the few times he visited – avoided to meet her gaze, averted his eyes, and looked at her with pity when he thought she didn't see. She'd seen it in Ginny's poorly hidden look of disgust as she'd glanced at her tummy the first time, asking her if she was actually going to keep that. _That_ – not the child or the baby – that. Three months later and Ginny still refused to call it anything else, just as she refused to understand why Hermione hadn't 'done something about it', as she put it when she argued with Hermione about her decision to keep her child.

"It's just a _thing_ Hermione – you don't have to keep it! There are spells–"

"The baby hasn't done anything wrong. He or she is mine and I'm not doing some spell to–"

"You're putting a – _that_ – in front of fighting against Voldemort! You don't even try to go anymore, Hermione."

"I do what I can, Ginny! I have worked out more things about his next move–"

"Studying isn't fighting, Hermione! It doesn't count. You're not out there risking your life like the rest of us are!"

"Studying does count! You wouldn't even know where to go or what to do if there weren't people working out Voldemort's next move! I do what I can – but I won't risk my baby's life!"

"You're putting a Death Eater baby ahead of all of us Hermione!"

That was usually when Hermione left the room, slamming the door to the stuffy small library where she took her refuge from the others. She found herself spending more and more time in there, hiding from Ginny's angry glares and Molly's pitying glances. It didn't help that Molly thought Hermione did the right thing to keep the child. Her going on about the bravery in her decision was almost worse. It felt like a lie. After all, no matter how much she hated it, Ginny was right. She was carrying a Death Eater's baby. The fact that Blaise had saved her life and helped the resistance didn't change the fact that he was, and more importantly, that he had been, a Death Eater. She loved him with all her heart, and she never hesitated for a moment to put his child's – their child's – safety before anything else – Ginny wasn't wrong about that either. But Molly_was_ wrong, and Hermione didn't deserve the pity and the encouraging words – and she didn't know how to pretend to be sad about a child that brought her so much hope and joy.

Yet in spite of it all, it was Fleur's reaction to her pregancy that bothered Hermione the most. The jealous glances, the hateful stare as Hermione's belly grew – reminding Fleur of what she'd lost. Of what she might never have. With Fleur, Hermione knew her feelings didn't come from a belief that she had been raped. They came from the pain of losing her own child – the feeling of injustice about it all. Hermione could shield herself against the pity and the resentment, hoping against reason that things would work out for the best – that she would be able to tell them the truth before the child was born. There was no shield against the angry stare from a mother that lost her child, however. Hermione was a living reminder of what Fleur lost and Fleur hated her for it. How could Hermione even ask her not to? She couldn't. And so she retreated as much as she could. Finding refuge in her books while rumours about her spread.

And the rumour_did_ spread – Hermione the hero back from her miraculous escape from Voldemort – but raped and defiled. Somehow the house seemed busier the further along she got, more and more people from the resistance finding their way to the small house to see for themselves. Hermione the hero – carrying a Death Eater's child.

She wanted to scream, to rant, to shout out the truth. She didn't of course – keeping a promise she'd never been able to make but yet saw as binding. Hoping for her child's sake that something would change – a sign, a word, anything that would allow her to tell the truth. And while she waited she did what she'd always done when she didn't know what to do – she studied. Locked up in the only room she could find some peace she read. She read the Quibbler, searching it for clues. She read reports coming to the house by owl or in the shape of a Patronus. She studied texts about Dark Magic, and did Arithmancy calculations – trying to predict a mad man's moves. She was fairly successful, but sometimes that didn't make her feel better. The more successful she was, the more confrontations were possible. Each and every one could mean an end to Voldemort or at least to a few of his followers – but they could also mean the end to Ginny, who refused to stay away even when Molly begged her to, or – which she feared the most – to Blaise.

It became easier when her belly grew bigger. Not even Ginny suggested that she'd go out to fight a war when she could barely move properly. But that didn't keep Ginny from resenting the baby. She still refused to think of it other than a thing, and she didn't forget that Hermione had actively chosen to have the child. Sometimes Hermione wondered how much Ginny's resentment had to do with the thought of the child as being the result from a rape, and how much her resentment had to do with the fact that it wasn't Ron's.

Molly didn't seem to care though, and a part of her normal nurturing nature returned as the months progressed. Somehow, the idea of a new life cheered her up – and for Hermione it was a blessing to be with someone that didn't always talk of war and death and vengeance. She kept her hope. With every message that came that wasn't from Blaise she still kept hoping that somehow he would contact her before their child was born. Somehow she kept hoping that their baby wouldn't be born into a world where his or her father was considered to be evil. And as spring turned to summer, Hermione started to talk to their baby. Walking around in the garden she tried out names while still hoping that Blaise would have a say in the matter. When she was sure no one heard her she told him or her about the way things really were. It was silly and illogical – but it made the feeling of hope grow stronger, so she kept on doing it, not caring about the worried glances from Remus or Molly as they saw her talking to herself.

Dorian Granger was born at the end of summer – crying angrily at the injustice of being forced out from such a warm and comfortable place. He had dark skin and high cheekbones and warm brown eyes – just like his father – and Hermione loved him the moment he was placed in her arms. Others were worried, however. No matter what Hermione said – or didn't say – it was now plain for everyone to see exactly who the father of her child was. Whispered comments and worried glances at how much the boy looked like his father accompanied them both, and so Hermione kept their son close, bringing him with her to the places where she knew they'd be left alone. Places where she could sit and marvel at the miracle he was, telling him in a hushed voice about his father, about what he had done to save her – making sure no one was ever close enough to listen to what she said.

Molly was the first one to overlook the boy's appearance, revelling in the joy of having a little boy to care for again – pampering both him and Hermione until Hermione forced herself to stop eating to keep at least the resemblance of a figure. Although in all fairness, nursing proved quite efficient in that respect.

Ginny and Fleur were harder to convince. They both stayed away from Dorian, although for different reasons. Hermione could understand Fleur but she still had a difficult time understanding Ginny. Sometimes when she sat in the small library watching Dorian sleep comfortably, his chest rising and falling with his every breath, she wondered if things would ever get back to the way they were between Ginny and her. As much as she wanted them to, she didn't think they would. Even if Ginny learned about Blaise – even if she understood that Dorian wasn't the result of a Death Eater rape, she wondered if Ginny would ever forgive Dorian for not having red hair and freckles. If she would ever forgive Hermione for moving on with her life while she still insisted on keeping the memory of Harry alive, refusing to let the past rest, refusing to move on without Harry in her life.

It was on one of those occasions, when she was sitting in the library with Dorian sleeping next to her, that Remus came to see her. Looking up from her papers, she smiled at him as he walked into the room. He was one of the few people that visited her in here – and as long as she ignored the occasional pitying glances, Hermione didn't mind his company.

He greeted her softy when he came in, glancing over at Dorian, keeping his voice down so he wouldn't wake him.

"He's growing," he said softly, clearly to avoid talking about why he was really here.

"Yes he is," Hermione answered. "He's a big little boy," she said with a smile as she glanced over at her son.

Remus nodded, biting his lip in thought before he went on. "Isn't it hard, Hermione. I mean…" he nodded towards Dorian, not finishing his sentence but leaving enough hanging for her to understand._Isn't it hard to raise a child that looks so much like the man that raped you? _Hermione wondered what he would say if she simply told him the truth?

"If you're talking about dirty nappies and lack of sleep – I've been through worse," she answered, pretending not to understand. Remus frowned. "He's mine Remus," Hermione added, looking him in the eyes. "He's my little miracle. It's as simple as that."

Remus nodded, although Hermione wasn't sure he understood at all. How could he possibly know what it was like to carry a person inside you for that long?

"I trust that that is not why you came in here," Hermione continued.

Remus smiled again, and shook his head. "We're getting stronger Hermione, now I know you know that, but I don't think we've ever been this strong before. Not in this war and not in the last one. If we will ever have a chance to defeat Voldemort – now would be it."

"You think we can even without Harry?" Hermione asked, knowing that many people didn't.

Once more, Remus nodded. "Harry did kill him, when he destroyed those horcruxes he killed him. Voldemort doesn't know they were destroyed – as far as we know, he haven't made any attempts at creating new ones. He still thinks that he's invincible; he still thinks he cannot die. We need to hit him now, while we're still this strong."

"You need to find out where he'll be so you can attack," Hermione filled in, finishing his train of thought.

"Yes we do. And you're the best shot we have at finding out." Remus answered. "How long do you…"

Remus trailed off as Hermoine rose, walking over to one of the bookcases and pulling out a book and a piece of parchment, handing them both to him.

"This is where I think he spends most of his time. I still need to do a few calculations to see if it's the best place to strike or not. That's what I'm working on now," she said.

Remus smiled. "I should have known you were ahead of us already," he said, looking impressed. "How long have you been working on this?" he asked.

"Since a few weeks before Dorian was born," Hermione answered, surprised at how much your life became before and after once you had a child. "It's taken a bit longer than I expected, but I kind of got sidetracked there for a moment," she said smiling, reaching out rubbing her fingers soothingly on Dorian's tummy.

Remus watched her quietly. "You look… happy," he said, sounding as if that was something to marvel at.

"Happy?" Hermione smiled at him. "I'll be happy when this is over. I'll be happy when I can live a normal life again. When I can take my son back to Britain and live as I want to, as a family. When I can show my parents their grandson," she said, wondering what Remus would think if he knew that she in the word family included Blaise as well.

Remus, however, only nodded slowly. "Then I'll better let you go back to work, so that we can at least _try_ to put an end to this."

Hermione watched him leave, then she watched her baby boy sleep, before she went back to work.

The row had been worse this time. Molly had cried openly, begging Ginny – pleading with her – to stay at home and not join the fight this time. Ginny had ranted and raved and talked about betraying Harry. She had left, shooting angry glances at both Molly and Hermione – Molly for trying to stop her from fighting, Hermione for not coming along herself. Fleur had gone too, the two of them closer in their grief than they had ever been able to be in their happiness.

And now they were waiting. Waiting for good news or bad – scared and hopeful at the same time. It felt wrong to leave Molly feeling like this, and so Hermione sat patiently waiting with her, playing absentmindedly with Dorian while he was awake, rocking him slowly when he finally fell asleep.

She wondered if Molly could see how scared she was, but then Molly seemed too wrapped up in her own fears to notice hers. She wondered how she would feel if it was Dorian out there – risking his life. The knot in her stomach rebelled and she forced herself to stop before she'd throw up. And here she was thinking she couldn't be more worried than she was.

Using Dorian as pretence, Hermione got up and left the sitting room, needing to get out before she the tension suffocated her completely. Walking back to her room, she put Dorian down in his cot, not wanting to hold him when she was feeling like this. He noticed her worry, she could tell by his breathing and movement. He calmed down once she put him down, relaxed in safety – not knowing what was going on in the world tonight.

Feeling obligated to return to Molly, Hermione cast a monitoring spell and left the room, taking her time walking back. She knew it wasn't fair, but she needed to breathe – to try and think of something besides the crippling worry of what was happening tonight. She wondered if Blaise would be there too. She was fairly certain he would – being under suspicion before, he would probably have to prove his loyalty. If he wasn't there, he'd be summoned. If he didn't heed the call and Voldemort won, he'd be dead. If he did heed the call, the resistance might very well kill him. Ginny certainly would if she got a free shot – if she wasn't killed first.

Feeling the nausea come over her again, Hermione forced herself to take deep breaths. Merlin, this had been easier when she was fighting herself. At least then she'd been too busy to think of all the what ifs.

Neither she nor Molly slept at all that night. Jumping at the slightest noise they sat together in the sitting room, neither talking and both trying not to think of what was going on, neither thinking of anything else. When the first Patronus brought a message they both shrieked in fear before they realised that no Patronuses would be sent if their side had lost.

It all happened very quickly after that. The people Apparating outside and storming into the house. The fireworks that filled the sky around the house, making Hermione put a sound proofing charm on her room to protect Dorian's sleep.

Fleur came in with a huge smile on her face, proclaiming that she had killed "ze monster zat 'ad killed 'er Bill." It was the first time Hermione had seen her smile since arriving in the house at all.

Molly, however, wasn't smiling. Even with the small house packed with people, Ginny had not returned. Hermione, too, was worried. About Ginny and about Blaise. She didn't know how to ask if he was alright or not without it sounding odd and out of place.

Molly shrieked in rejoice when Ginny finally came through the door, limping and bleeding slightly, but with a look of pride on her face as she leaned on Remus for support. Smothering her with hugs and kisses, Molly held on to her while Hermione moved closer, hoping to be able to ask Remus who was alive – and more importantly, who had been killed.

"Hermione!"

She heard, Ginny's voice calling out before she had any time to reach Remus, and turned to smile at her.

"I'm so happy you're safe, Ginny," she said, smiling at her as Ginny untangled herself from her mother, limping over to Hermione.

"You're safe too, Hermione," Ginny said with a big smile. Hermione looked at her, not quite sure what she meant. "He can't hurt you again," she added, and suddenly Hermione felt her nausea return to her gut. Instinctively she covered her mouth in fear of throwing up. "Didn't you hear me?" Ginny asked gaily. "Zabini can't hurt you again –.ever!" she said, throwing her arms around Hermione, holding her tighter than she had in months.

Hermione felt sick and she could taste blood inside her mouth. She wanted to throw up, to cry, to rant and rave at the injustice of it all. _This wasn't the way it was supposed to be! This couldn't be the end – it wasn't allowed to be. It wasn't fair! It wasn't right! This was the time when they were supposed to start their life together – not the time she was supposed to mourn his death. What good would her story and her books do him now?_

"Hermione." Somewhere in the back of her mind she felt Remus's hand on her shoulder. She wanted to cry. She hated that she couldn't. "Ginny's right. He won't hurt you again. With your testimony he'll never leave Azkaban."

_Azkaban? Had he said... _"You mean he's not dead?" Hermione whispered, unable to breathe let alone talk properly. Somewhere she registered someone laughing.

"No, I'm afraid he's not Hermione," Ginny said consolingly, letting go of her enough to look at her.

"Surely it's enough that he cannot hurt you anymore, that he'll be punished for what he did," Remus added, his hand never leaving her shoulder.

He reached out and grabbed her as her knees gave way beneath her. Feeling a wave of relief wash over her she couldn't possibly stand on her own any longer. Tears were streaming down her face and the only feeling she could master was an all consuming sense of gratitude and hope. She felt Remus's and Ginny's arms around her and in the back of her mind she registered their words of comfort and reassurances. _Azkaban! He was sent to Azkaban. He wasn't dead – he was alive. Azkaban meant life, not death. She could help him there – she could change things, tell things, make a difference. Things would be alright again. Maybe not at once – but some day. Some day they'd be together – the three of them a family as they were supposed to. Some day – all she had to do until then was hope. She was good at hoping._

The end


End file.
